
































































































































































§ 




Class_ T Z ji_ 

Book 

GoffyrightN"_!_ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


?Z 3 
• H 25^ Q 


(AS 














THE 

WORKS OF BRET HARTE. 

ititjcraiDc (Sbition. 


COLLECTED AND REVISED BY THE AUTHOR. 




GABRIEL CONROY 


BY 

BRET HARTE 



BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

New York: 85'-Avenue „ ^, >> 

Cbe C^iberi^iDe prf]5!9,:Hra.VArib0e^ > ; ’ 
















?7-t. 


THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two Cof^ies HeceiveL 

MAY 29 1903 

Copyught Entry 
CLASS a XXc. No, 

^ / * 4 - 

I COPY B. 


Copyright, 187s, 

Bv AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
Copyright, 1882 and 1903, 

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

All rights reserved 


c *■ 

C ( 
( 


< < 
c « 


' « % 


% % ^ » 


c c < * 

4 < « 

4 < 4 € * 


« C 












CONTENTS 


BOOK I—ON THE THRESHOLD. 


ZnA9 

I. WrXHOUT. 

II. WITHIN.. , 

III. GABRIEI. . . .. 

IV. NATURE SHOWS THEM THE WAY . . , 

V. OUT OF THE WOODS—INTO THE SHADOW . 

VI. FOOTPRINTS. 

VII. IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS BEGIN TO FADE . 
VIII. THE FOOTPRINTS GROW FAINTER . 

IX. IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS ARE LOST FOR EVER 


BOOK II.—AFTER FIVE YEARS. 


I. ONE HORSE GULCH. 

II. MADAME DEVARGES. 

'II. MRS. MARKLE. 

IV. IN WHICH THE ARTFUL GABRIEL IS DISCOVERED 


F/.oa 

1 

9 

21 

26 

3 ° 

36 

40 

43 

47 


54 

65 

74 

87 

95 


V. 


SIMPLICITY versus SAGACITY 






vl Contents. 


BOOK III.—THE LEAD. 


CHAP. 

I, 

AN OLD PIONEER OF ’49 . 

• 

• 

• 

rAOto 

108 

II. 

A CLOUD OF WITNESSES . . • • 

• 

• 

• 

118 

III. 

THE CHARMING MRS. SEPULVIDA . * 

• 

• 

• 

«25 

IV. 

FATHER FELIPE. 

• 

• 

• 

132 

V. 

IN WHICH THE DONNA MARIA MAKES AN IMPRESSION 

• 

14c 

VI. 

THE LADY OF GRIEF .... 

• 

• 

• 

IS* 

VI1. 

A LEAF OUT OF THE PAST . . • 

• 

• 

• 

165 

VIII. 

THE BULLS OF THE BLESSED TRINITY . 

• 

• 

• 

171 


BOOK IV.—DRIFTING. 




I. MR. AND MRS. CONROY AT HOME 

• 

• 

178 

II. IN WHICH THE TREASURE IS FOUND—AND LOST 

• 

• 

I9I 

III. MR. DUMPHY MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 

• 

• 

205 

IV. MR. JACK HAMLIN TAKES A HOLIDAY • • 

• 

• 

212 

V. VICTOR MAKES A DISCOVERY .... 

c 

• 

222 

VI. AN EXPERT. 



231 


BOOK V.—THE VEIN. 

I, IN WHICH GABRIEL RECOGNISES THE PROPRIETIES . . 243 

II. TRANSIENT GUESTS AT THE GRAND CONROY . . , 257 

III IN WHICH MR. DUMPHY TAKES A HOLIDAY. , . . 266 

IV. MR. DUMPHY HAS NEWS OF A DOMESTIC CHARACTER . 280 

V. MRS. CONROY HAS AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR , . . aOI 





Co7ttents, 


Vll 


niAP. 

VI. GABRIEL DISCARDS HIS HOME AND WEALTH 
VII. WHAT PASSED UNDER THE PINE AND WHAT REMAINED 

there . 


PAGB 

299 

305 


BOOK VI.—A DIP. 


I. MR. Hamlin’s recreation continued . , 

II. MR. HAMLIN TAKES A HAND .... 

III. MR. DUMPHY TAKES POINSETT INTO CONFIDENCE 

IV. MR. HAMLIN IS OFF WITH AN OLD LOVE . 

V. THE THREE VOICES. 

VI. MR. DUMPHY IS PERPLEXED BY A MOVEMENT IN 

ESTATE . 

VII. IN WHICH BOTH JUSTICE AND THE HEAVENS FALL 
nil. IN TENEBRIS SERVARE FIDEM .... 

IX. IN WHICH HECTOR ARISES FROM THE DITCH . 


REAL 


317 

3*5 

33 « 

349 

354 

363 

376 X 

387 

398 


BOOK VII.—THE BED ROCK. 


I. IN THE TRACK OF A STORM ...... 4O9 

II. THE YELLOW ENVELOPE 423 

III. GABRIEL MEETS HIS LAWYER. 435 

IV. WHAT AH FE DOES NOT KNOW. 447 

V. THE PEOPLE V. JOHN DOE alias GABRIEL CONROY, AND 

JANE ROE alias JULIE CONROY.45a 

yi, IN REBUTTAL. 461 

WII. A FAMILY GREETING. ,.471 





Vlll 


Contents. 


CHAP. 





PAGB 

VIII. IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS RETURN 

• 

• 

• 

. 477 

IX. IN WHICH MR. HAMLIN PASSES 

« 

• 

• 

• 

, 48 : 

X. IN THE OLD CABIN AGAIN 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 491 

XI. THE RETURN OF A FOOTPRINT. 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 495 


XII. FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM OLYMPIA CONROY TO 


GRACX POINSETT.' 


497 



GABRIEL CONROY. 

BOOK I. 

ON THE THRESHOLD. 

CHAPTER I. 

WITHOUT. 

Snow. Everywhere. As far as the eye could reach—fifty 
miles, looking southward from the highest white peak,—filling 
ravines and gulches, and dropping from the walls of canons 
in white shroud-like drifts, fashioning the dividing ridge into 
the likeness of a monstrous grave, hiding the bases of giant 
pines, and completely covering young trees and larches, 
rimming with porcelain the bowl-like edges of still, cold 
lakes, and undulating in motionless white billows to the edge 
of the distant horizon. Snow lying everywhere over the 
California Sierras on the 15th day of March 1848, and still 
falling. 

It had been snowing for ten days : snowing in finely grant*, 
lated powder, in damp, spongy flakes, in thin, feathery plumes, 
snowing from a leaden sky steadily, snowing fiercely, shaken 
out of purple-black clouds in white flocculent masses, or 
dropping in long level lines, like white lances from the 
tumbled and broken heavens. But always silently! The 
woods were so choked with it—the branches were so laden 
VOL. iv. A 


2 


Gabriel Conroy. 

with it—it had so permeated, filled and possessed earth and 
sky; it had so cushioned and muffled the ringing rocks and 
echoing hills, that all sound was deadened. The strongest 
gust, the fiercest blast, awoke no sigh or complaint from the 
snow-packed, rigid files of forest. There was no cracking of 
bough nor crackle of underbush ; the overladen branches of 
pine and fir yielded and gave way without a sound. The 
silence was vast, measureless, complete! Nor could it be 
said that any outward sign of life or motion changed the fixed 
outlines of this stricken landscape. Above, there was no 
play of light and shadow, only the occasional deepening of 
storm or night. Below, no bird winged its flight across the 
white expanse, no beast haunted the confines of the black 
woods ; whatever of brute nature might have once inhabited 
these solitudes had long since flown to the lowlands. 

There was no track or imprint; whatever foot might have 
left its mark upon this waste, each succeeding snow-fall 
obliterated all trace or record. Every morning the solitude 
was virgin and unbroken; a million tiny feet had stepped 
into the track and filled it up. And yet, in the centre of 
this desolation, in the very stronghold of this grim fortress, 
there was the mark of human toil. A few trees had been 
felled at the entrance of the canon, and the freshly-cut chips 
were but lightly covered with snow. They served, perhaps, to 
indicate another tree “ blazed ” with an axe, and bearing a 
rudely-shaped wooden effigy of a human hand, pointing to the 
canon. Below the hand was a square strip of canvas, securely 
nailed against the bark, and bearing the following inscription— 

“NOTICE. 

Captain Conroy’s party of emigrants are lost in the snew, and 
camped up in this canon. Out of provisions and starving I 

Left St. Jo, October 8th, 1847. 

Left Salt Lake, January ist, 1848. 



Without, 


3 


Arrived here, March 1st, 1848. 

Lost half our stock on the Platte. 
Abandoned our waggons, February 20th^ 

HELP / 


Our names are: 


Joel McCormick, 
Peter Dumphy, 
Paul Devarges, 
Grace Conroy, 
Olympia Conroy, 


Jane Brackett, 
Gabriel Conroy, 
John Walker, 
Henry March, 
Philip Ashley, 


Jane Dumphy. 


(Then in smaller letters, in pencil:) 

Mamie died, November 8th, Sweetwater. 
Minnie died, December ist. Echo Cahon. 
Jane died, January 2nd, Salt Lake. 
James Brackett, lost, February 3rd. 

H ELP I” 


The language of suffering is not apt to be artistic or studied, 
but I think that rhetoric could not improve this actual record. 
So I let it stand, even as it stood this 15th day of March 1848, 
half-hidden by a thin film of damp snow, the snow-whitened 
hand stiffened and pointing rigidly to the fateful canon like 
the finger of Death. 

At noon there was a lull in the storm, and a slight bright¬ 
ening of the sky toward the east. The grim outlines of the 
distant hills returned, and the starved white flank of the moun¬ 
tain began to glisten. Across its gaunt hollow some black 
object was moving—moving slowly and laboriously; moving 
with such an uncertain mode of progression, that at first it was 
difficult to detect whether it was brute or human—sometimes 
on all fours, sometimes erect, again hurrying forward like a 
drunken man, but always with a certain definiteness of purpose^ 
towards the canon. As it approached nearer you saw that 
it was a man—a haggard man, ragged and enveloped in a 


4 


Gabriel Conroy. 

tattered buffalo robe, but still a man, and a determined one. 
A young man despite his bent figure and wasted limbs—a 
young man despite the premature furrows that care and 
anxiety had set upon his brow and in the corners of his rigid 
mouth—a young man notwithstanding the expression of 
savage misanthropy with which suffering and famine had 
overlaid the frank impulsiveness of youth. When he reached 
the tree at the entrance of the canon, he brushed the film of 
snow from the canvas placard, and then leant for a few 
moments exhaustedly against its trunk. There was some¬ 
thing in the abandonment of his attitude that indicated even 
more pathetically than his face and figure his utter prostra¬ 
tion—a prostration quite inconsistent with any visible cause. 
When he had rested himself, he again started forward with 
a nervous intensity, shambling, shuffling, falling, stooping to 
replace the rudely extemporised snow-shoes of fir bark that 
frequently slipped from his feet, but always starting on again 
with the feverishness of one who doubted even the sustain¬ 
ing power of his will. 

A mile beyond the tree the canon narrowed and turned 
gradually to the south, and at this point a thin curling cloud 
of smoke was visible that seemed to rise from some crevice 
in the snow. As he came nearer, the impression of recent 
footprints began to show; there was some displacement of 
• the snow around a low mound from which the smoke now 
plainly issued. Here he stopped, or rather lay down, before 
an opening or cavern in the snow, and uttered a feeble 
shout. It was responded to still more feebly. Presently a 
face appeared above the opening, and a ragged figure like 
his own, then another, and then another, until eight human 
creatures, men and women, surrounded him in the snow, 
squatting like animals, and like animals lost to all sense of 
decency and shame. 

They were so haggard, so faded, so forlorn, so wan,—so 



WithoMt. 


5 


piteous in their human aspect, or rather all that was left of 
a human aspect,—that they might have been wept over as 
they sat there ; they were so brutal, so imbecile, unreasoning 
and grotesque in these newer animal attributes, that they 
might have provoked a smile. They were originally country 
people, mainly of that social class whose self-respect is apt 
to be dependent rather on their circumstances, position and 
surroundings, than upon any individual moral power or in¬ 
tellectual force. They had lost the sense of shame in the 
sense of equality of suffering; there was nothing within 
them to take the place of the material enjoyments they were 
losing. They were childish without the ambition or emula¬ 
tion of childhood; they were men and women without the 
dignity or simplicity of man and womanhood. All that 
had raised them above the level of the brute was lost in the 
snow. Even the characteristics of sex were gone; an old 
woman of sixty quarrelled, fought, and swore with the harsh 
utterance and ungainly gestures of a man ; a young man of 
scorbutic temperament wept, sighed, and fainted with the 
hysteria of a woman. So profound was their degradation 
that the stranger who had thus evoked them from the earth, 
even in his very rags and sadness, seemed of another race. 

They were all intellectually weak and helpless, but one, a 
woman, appeared to have completely lost her mind. She 
carried a small blanket wrapped up to represent a child— 
the tangible memory of one that had starved to death in her 
arms a few days before—and rocked it from side to side 
as she sat, with a faith that was piteous. But even more 
piteous was the fact that none of her companions took the 
east notice, either by sympathy or complaint, of her aber¬ 
ration. When, a few moments later, she called upon them 
to be quiet, for that “ baby ” was asleep, they glared at her 
indifferently and went on. A red-haired man, who was 
chewing a piece of buffalo hide, cast a single murderous 


6 


Gabriel Conroy. 

glance at her, but the next moment seemed to have for¬ 
gotten her presence in his more absorbing occupation. 

The stranger paused a moment rather to regain his breath 
than to wait for their more orderly and undivided attention. 
Then he uttered the single word: 

“ Nothing! ” 

“Nothing!’^ They all echoed the word simultaneously, 
but with different inflection and significance—one fiercely, 
another gloomily, another stupidly, another mechanically. 
The woman with the blanket baby explained to it, “ he says 
*■ nothing,’ ” and laughed. 

“ No—nothing,” repeated the speaker. “ Yesterda/s 
snow blocked up the old trail again. The beacon on the 
summit’s burnt out. I left a notice at the Divide. Do 
that again, Dumphy, and I’ll knock the top of your ugly 
head off.” 

Dumphy, the red-haired man, had rudely shoved and 
stricken the woman with the baby—she was his wife, and 
this conjugal act may have been partly habit—as she was 
crawling nearer the speaker. She did not seem to notice 
the blow or its giver—the apathy with which these people 
received blows or slights was more terrible than wrangling 
—but said assuringly, when she had reached the side of 
the young man— 

** To-morrow, then ? ” 

The face of the young man softened as he made the same 
reply he had made for the last eight days to the same 
question— 

“To-morrow, surely!” 

She crawled away, still holding the effigy of her dead 
baby very carefully, and retreated down the opening. 

“ ’Pears to me you don’t do much ennyway, out scouting ! 
'Pears to me you ain’t worth shucks ! ” said the harsh-voiced 
•roman, glancing at the speaker. “Why don’t some on ye 


Without. 


1 


take his place ? Why do you trust your lives and ihe lives 
of women to that thar Ashley?” she continued, with her 
voice raised to a strident bark. 

The hysterical young man, Henry March, who sat next 
to her, turned a wild scared face upon her, and then, as if 
fearful of being dragged into the conversation, disappeared 
hastily after Mrs. Dumphy. 

Ashley shrugged his shoulders, and, replying to the group^ 
rather than any individual speaker, said curtly— 

“There’s but one chance—equal for all—open to all. 
You know what it is. To stay here is death; to go cannot 
be worse than that.” 

He rose and walked slowly away up the canon a few rods 
to where another mound was visible, and disappeared from 
their view. When he had gone, a querulous chatter went 
around the squatting circle. 

“Gone to see the old Doctor and the gal. We’re no 
account.” 

“ Thar’s two too many in this yer party.” 

“ Yes—the crazy Doctor and Ashley.” 

“ They’re both interlopers, any way.” 

“Jonahs.” 

“ Said no good could come of it, ever since we picked 
him up.” 

“ But the Cap’n invited the ol’ Doctor, and took all his 
stock at Sweetwater, and Ashley put in his provisions with 
the rest.” 

The speaker was McCormick. Somewhere in the feeble 
depths of his consciousness there was still a lingering sense 
of justice. He was hungry, but not unreasonable. Besides^ 
he remembered with a tender regret the excellent quality 
of provision that Ashley had furnished. 

“What's that got to do with it?” screamed Mr& 
Brackett. “ He brought the bad luck with him. Ain’t my 


8 Gabriel Conroy, 

husband dead, and isn’t that skunk—an entire stranger— 
itill livin’?” 

The voice was masculine, but the logic was feminine. 
In cases of great prostration with mental debility, in the 
hopeless vacuity that precedes death by inanition or starva¬ 
tion, it is sometimes very effective. They all assented to 
it, and, by a singular intellectual harmony, the expression oi 
each was the same. It was simply an awful curse. 

“ What are you goin’ to do ? ” 

“ If I was a man, I’d know 1 " 

“ Knife him ! ” 

“Kill him, and”- 

The remainder of this sentence was lost to the others in 
a confidential whisper between Mrs. Brackett and Dumphy. 
After this confidence they sat and wagged their heads to¬ 
gether, like two unmatched but hideous Chinese idols. 

“ Look at his strength ! and he not a workin’ man like us,” 
said Dumphy. “ Don’t tell me he don’t get suthin’ reg’lar.” 

“ Suthin’ what?” 

“Suthin’ TO EAT!” 

But it is impossible to convey, even by capitals, the intense 
emphasis put upon this verb. It was followed by a horrible 
pause. 

“ Let’s go and see.” 

“ And kill him ? ” suggested the gentle Mrs. Brackett 

They all rose with a common interest almost like enthu¬ 
siasm. But after they had tottered a few steps, they fell. 
Yet even then there was not enough self-respect left among 
them to feel any sense of shame or mortification in their 
baffled design. They stopped—all except Dumphy. 

“ Wot’s that dream you was talkin’ ’bout jess now?” said 
Mr. McCormick, sitting down and abandoning the enterprise 
with the most shameless indifference. 

“’Bout the dinner at St. Jo?” asked the person ad 



Within. 


9 


dressed—a gentleman whose faculty of alimentary irtiagina- 
tion had been at once the bliss and torment of his present 
social circle. 

‘‘Yes.” 

They all gathered eagerly around Mr. McCormick; even 
Mr. Dumphy, who was still moving away, stopped. 

“ Well,” said Mr. March, “ it began with beefsteak and 
injins—beefsteak, you know, juicy and cut very thick, and 
jess squashy with gravy and injins.” There was a very per¬ 
ceptible watering of the mouth in the party, and Mr. March, 
with the genius of a true narrator, under the plausible dis¬ 
guise of having forgotten his story, repeated the last sentence 
—“ jess squashy with gravy and injins. And taters—baked.” 

“ You said fried before !—and dripping with fat! ” inter- 
posecj Mrs. Brackett, hastily. 

“For them as likes fried—but baked goes furder—skins 
and all—and sassage and coffee and flapjacks ! ” 

At this magical word they laughed, not mirthfully perhaps, 
but eagerly and expectantly, and said, “ Go on ! ” 

“ And flapjacks ! ” 

“You said that afore,” said Mrs Brackett, with a buist of 
passion. “ Go on ! ” with an oath. 

The giver of this Barmecide feast saw his dangerous posi¬ 
tion, and looked around for Dumphy, but he had disappeared. 


CHAPTER II. 

WITHIN. 

The hut into which Ashley descended was like a Green¬ 
lander’s “ iglook,” below the surface of the snow. Accident 
rather than design had given it this Arctic resemblance. As 
gnow upon snow had blocked up its entrance, and reared 
its white ladders against ilt walls, and as the strength of its 


lo Gabriel Conroy. 

exhausted inmates slowly declined, communication with the 
outward world was kept up only by a single narrow passage. 
Excluded from the air, it was close and stifling, but it had a 
warmth that perhaps the thin blood of its occupants craved 
more than light or ventilation. 

A smouldering fire in a wooden chimney threw a faim 
flicker on the walls. By its light, lying on the floor, were 
discernible four figures—a young woman and a child of three 
or four years wrapped in a single blanket, near the fire; 
nearer the door two men, separately enwrapped, lay apart. 
They might have been dead, so deep and motionless were 
their slumbers. 

Perhaps some fear of this filled the mind of Ashley as he 
entered, for after a moment’s hesitation, without saying a 
word, he passed quickly to the side of the young woman, 
and, kneeling beside her, placed his hand upon her face. 
Slight as was the touch, it awakened her. I know not what 
subtle magnetism was in that contact, but she caught the 
hand in her own, sat up, and before the eyes were scarcely 
opened, uttered the single word— 

“Philip!” 

“ Grace—hush !” 

He took her hand, kissed it, and pointed warningly toward 
the other sleepers. 

“ Speak low. I have much to say to you.” 

The young girl seemed to be content to devour the 
speaker with her eyes. 

“ You have come back,” she whispered, with a faint smile, 
and a look that showed too plainly the predominance of 
that fact above all others in her mind. “ I dreamt of you, 
Philip.” 

“ Dear Grace”—he kissed her hand again. “ Listen to 
me, darling 1 I have come back, but only with the old 
story—no signs of succour, no indications of help from with- 


Within. 


II 


out! My belief is, Grace,” he added, in a voice so low as 
to be audible only to the quick ear to which it was ad¬ 
dressed, “that we have blundered far south of the usual 
travelled trail. Nothing but a miracle or a misfortune like 
our own would bring another train this way. We are alone 
and helpless—in an unknown region that even the savage 
and brute have abandoned. The only aid we can calcu¬ 
late upon is from within—from ourselves. What that aid 
amounts to,” he continued, turning a cynical eye towards 
the sleepers, “ you know as well as I.” 

She pressed his hand, apologetically, as if accepting the 
reproach herself, but did not speak. 

“As a party we have no strength—no discipline,” he 
went on. “ Since your father died we have had no leader. 
I know what you would say, Grace dear,” he continued, 
answering the mute protest of the girl’s hand, “ but even if 
it were true—if I were capable of leading them, they would 
not take my counsels. Perhaps it is as well If we kept 
together, the greatest peril of our situation would be ever 
present—the peril from ourselves / ” 

He looked intently at her as he spoke, but she evidently 
did not take his meaning. “ Grace,” he said, desperately, 
“ when starving men are thrown together, they are capable 
of any sacrifice—of any crime, to keep the miserable life 
that they hold so dear just in proportion as it becomes 
valueless. You have read in books—Grace ! good God, 
what is the matter ? ” 

If she had not read his meaning in books, she might 
have read it at that moment in the face that was peering in 
at the door—a face with so much of animal suggestion in its 
horrible wistfulness that she needed no further revelation; 
a face full of inhuman ferocity and watchful eagerness, and 
yet a face familiar in its outlines—the face of Dumphy! 
Even with her danger came the swifter instinct of feminine 


12 Gabriel Conroy, 

tact and concealment, and without betraying the real cause 
of her momentary horror, she dropped her head upon 
Philip’s shoulder and whispered, “ I understand.” When 
she raised her head again the face was gone. 

Enough, I did not mean to frighten you, Grace, but 
only to show you what we must avoid—what we have still 
strength left to avoid. There is but one chance of escape \ 
you know what it is—a desperate one, but no more desper¬ 
ate than this passive waiting for a certain end. I ask you 
again—will you share it with me? When I first spoke I 
was less sanguine than now. Since then I have explored 
the ground carefully, and studied the trend of these moun¬ 
tains. It is possible. I say no more.” 

“ But my sister and brother ? ” 

“ The child would be a hopeless impediment, even if she 
could survive the fatigue and exposure. Your brother must 
stay with her; she will need all his remaining strength and 
all the hopefulness that keeps him up. No, Grace, we 
must go alone. Remember, our safety means theirs. Their 
strength will last until we can send relief; while they would 
sink in the attempt to reach it with us. I would go alone, 
but I cannot bear, dear Grace, to leave you here.” 

** I should die if you left me,” she said, simply. 

“ I believe you would, Grace,” he said as simply. 

“ But can we not wait ? Help may come at any moment 
—to morrow.” 

“To-morrow will find us weaker. I should not trust 
your strength nor my own a day longer.” 

“ But the old man—the Doctor ? ” 

“ He will soon be beyond the reach of help,” said the 
young man, sadly. “ Hush, he is moving.” 

One of the blanketed figures had rolled over. Philip 
walked to the fire, threw on a fresh stick, and stirred the 
embers. The upspringing flash showed the face of an old 


Within. 13 

man whose eyes were fixed with feverish intensity upon 
him. 

‘'What are you doing with the fire?” he asked queru¬ 
lously, with a slight foreign accent. 

“ Stirring it! ” 

“ Leave it alone ! ” 

Philip listlessly turned away. 

“Come here,” said the old man. 

Philip approached. 

“ You need say nothing,” said the old man after a pause, 
in which he examined Philip’s face keenly, “ I read your 
news in your face—the old story—I know it by heart.” 
“Well?” said Philip. 

“ Well ! ” said the old man, stolidly. 

Philip again turned away. 

“ You buried the case and papers ? ” asked the old man. 
“Yes.” 

“ Through the snow—in the earth ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Securely ? ” 

“ Securely.” 

“ How do you indicate it ? ” 

“ By a cairn of stones.” 

“ And the notices—in German and French ? ” 

“ 1 nailed them up wherever I could, near the old trail.” 
“Good.” 

The cynical look on Philip’s face deepened as he once 
more turned away. But before he reached the door he 
paused, and drawing from his breast a faded flower, with a 
few limp leaves, handed it to the old man. 

“ I found the duplicate of the plant you were looking foi." 
The old man half rose on his elbow, breathless with 
excitement as he clutched and eagerly examined the plant 
“ It is the same,” he said, with a sigh of relief, “and yet 
you said there was no news ! ” 


14 Gabriel Conroy. ' 

“ May I ask what it means ? ” said Philip, with a slight 
smile. 

“ It means that I am right, and Linnaeus, Darwin, and 
Eschscholtz are wrong. It means a discovery. It means 
that this which you call an Alpine flower is not one, but a 
new species.” 

“ An important fact to starving men,” said Philip, bitterly. 

It means more,” continued the old man, without heed¬ 
ing Philip’s tone. “ It means that this flower is not deve¬ 
loped in perpetual snow. It means that it is first germinated 
in a warm soil and under a kindly sun. It means that if 
you had not plucked it, it would have fulfilled its destiny 
under those conditions. It means that in two months grass 
will be springing where you found it—even where we now 
lie. We are below the limit of perpetual snow.” 

In two months ! ” said the young girl, eagerly, clasping 
her hands. 

“ In two months,” said the young man, bitterly. “ In two 
months we shall be far from here, or dead.” 

“ Probably ! ” said the old man, coolly ; “ but if you have 
fulfilled my injunctions in regard to my papers and the 
collection, they will in good time be discovered and saved.” 

Ashley turned away with an impatient gesture, and the old 
man’s head again sank exhaustedly upon his arm. Under 
the pretext of caressing the child, Ashley crossed over to 
Grace, uttered a few hurried and almost inaudible words, 
and disappeared through the door. When he had gone, 
the old maf:\ raised his head again and called feebly— 

“ Grace ! 

** Dr. Devatges ! ” 

“ Come here > ” 

She rose and crossed over to his side. 

“ Why did he s^^ir the fire, Grace ? ” said Devarges, with a 
fuspiciour glance. 



Within. 


*5 


“I don’t know.” 

“You tell him everything—did you tell him that?” 

“ I did not, sir.” 

Devarges looked as if he would read the inmost thoughts 
of the girl, and then, as if reassured, said— 

“ Take it from the fire, and let it cool in the snow.” 

The young girl raked away the embers of the dying file, 
and disclosed what seemed to be a stone of the size of a 
hen’s egg incandescent and glowing. With the aid of two 
half-burnt sticks she managed to extract it, and deposited 
it in a convenient snow-drift near the door, and then 
returned to the side of the old man. 

“ Grace I ” 

“ Sir! ” 

“ You are going away ! ” 

Grace did not speak. 

“ Don’t deny it. I overheard you. Perhaps it is the 
best that you can do. But whether it is or not you will do 
it—of course. Grace, what do you know of that man ? ” 

Neither the contact of daily familiarity, the quality of 
suffering, nor the presence of approaching death, could sub¬ 
due the woman’s nature in Grace. She instantly raised her 
shield. From behind it she began to fence feebly with the 
dying man, 

“ Why, what we all know of him, sir,—a true friend; a 
man to whose courage, intellect, and endurance we owe so 
much. And so unselfish, sir ! ” 

“ Humph !—what else ? ” 

“ Nothing—except that he has always been your devoted 
friend—and I thought you were his. You brought him to 
us,” she said a little viciously. 

“ Yes—I picked him up at Sweetwater. But what do you 
know of his history ? What has he told you ? ” 

“He ran away from a wicked stepfather and relation! 


16 Gabriel Com'oy, 

whom he hated. He came out West to live alone—among 
the Indians—or to seek his fortune in Oregon. He is very 
proud—you know, sir. He is as unlike us as you are, sir,— 
he is a gentleman. He is educated.” 

“Yes, I believe that's what they call it here, and he 
doesn't know the petals of a flower from the stamens,’* 
muttered Devarges. “ Well! After you run away with 
him does he propose to marry you ? ” 

For an instant a faint flush deepened the wan cheek of 
the girl, and she lost her guard. But the next moment she 
recovered it. 

“ Oh, sir,” said this arch hypocrite, sweetly, “ how can 
you jest so cruelly at such a moment ? The life of my dear 
brother and sister, the lives of the poor women in yonder 
hut, depend upon our going. He and I are the only ones 
left who have strength enough to make the trial. I can 
assist him, for, although strong, I require less to support 
my strength than he. Something tells me we shall be 
successful; we shall return soon with help. Oh, sir,—it is 
no time for trifling now; our lives—even your own is at 
stake ! ” 

“ My own life,” said the old man, impassively, “ is al¬ 
ready spent. Before you return, if you return at all, I shall 
be beyond your help.” 

A spasm of pain appeared to pass over his face. He lay 
still for a moment as if to concentrate his strength for a 
further effort. But when he again spoke his voice was 
much lower, and he seemed to articulate with difficulty. 

“Grace,” he said at last, “come nearer, girl.—I have 
something to tell you.” 

Grace hesitated. Within the last few moments a shy, 
neiTous dread of the man which she could not account foi 
had taken possession of her. She looked toward her sleep 
ing brother. 


Within, 


17 


*• He will not waken,” said Devarges, following the direc¬ 
tion of her eyes. “The anodyne still holds its effect. 
Bring me what you took from the fire.” 

Grace brought the stone—a dull bluish-grey slag. The 
old man took it, examined it, and then said to Grace— 

“ Rub it briskly on your blanket.” 

Grace did so. After a few moments it began to exhibit 
a faint white lustre on its polished surface. 

“ It looks like silver,” said Grace, doubtfully. 

“ It is silver ! ” replied Devarges. 

Grace put it down quickly and moved slightly away. 

“ Take it,” said the old man,—“ it is yours. A year ago 
I found it in a ledge of the mountain range far w'est of this. 
I know where it lies in bulk—a fortune, Grace, do you 
hear ?—hidden in the bluish stone you put in the fire for 
me last night I can tell you where and how to find it I 
can give you the title to it—the right of discovery. Take 
it—it is yours.” 

“ No, no,” said the girl, hurriedly, “ keep it yourself. 
You will live to enjoy it” 

“ Never, Grace! even were I to live I should not make 
use of it. I have in my life had more than my share of it, 
and it brought me no happiness. It has no value to me— 
the rankest weed that grows above it is worth more in my 
eyes. Take it. To the world it means everything—wealth 
and position. Take it. It will make you as proud' and 
independent as your lover—it will make you always gracious 
in his eyes ;—it will be a setting to your beauty,—it will be 
a pedestal to your virtue. Take it—it is yours.” 

“ But you have relatives—friends,” said the girl, drawing 
away from the shining stone with a half superstitious awe 
“There are others wnose claims ”- 

“ None greater than yours,” interrupted the old man, with 
the nervous haste of failing breath. “ Call it a reward if 

VOI, IV. B 



18 Gabriel Conroy, 

you choose. Look upon it as a bribe to keep your lover 
to the fulfilment of his promise to preserve my manuscripts 
and collection. Think, if you like, that it is an act of 
retribution—that once in my life I might have known a 
young girl whose future would have been blest by such a 
gift. Think—think what you like—but take it! ” 

His voice had sunk to a whisper. A greyish pallor had 
overspread his face, and his breath came with difficulty. 
Grace would have called her brother, but with a motion of 
his hand Devarges restrained her. With a desperate effort 
he raised himself upon his elbow, and drawing an envelope 
from his pocket, put it in her hand. 

“It contains—map—description of mine and locality— 
yours—say you will take it—Grace, quick, say”- 

His head had again sunk to the floor. She stooped to 
raise it. As she did so a slight shadow darkened the open¬ 
ing by the door. She raised her eyes quickly and saw the 
face of Dumphy! 

She did not shrink this time; but, with a sudden - 
instinct, she turned to Devarges, and said— 

“I will!” 

She raised her eyes again defiantly, but the face had dis* 
appeared. 

“ Thank you,” said the old man. His lips moved again, 
but without a sound. A strange film had begun to gather 
in his eyes. 

“ Dr. Devarges,” whispered Grace. 

He did not speak. “ He is dying,” thought the young 
girl as a new and sudden fear overcame her. She rose 
quickly and crossed hurriedly to her brother and shook him. 

A prolonged inspiration, like a moan, was the only response. 
Fc ' a moment she glanced wildly around the room and then 
ran to the door. 

“Philip!” 




Within. 


19 


There was no response. She climbed up through the 
tunnel-like opening. It was already quite dark, and a few 
feet beyono the hut nothing was distinguishable. She cast 
a rapid backward glance, and then, with a sudden despera¬ 
tion, darted forward into the darkness. At the same moment 
two figures raised themselves from behind the shadow of the 
mound and slipped down the tunnel into the hut—Mrs. 
Brackett and Mr. Dumphy. They might have been the 
meanest predatory animals—so stealthy, so eager, so timorous, 
so crouching, and yet so agile were their motions. They 
ran sometimes upright, and sometimes on all fours, hither and 
thither. They fell over each other in their eagerness, and 
struck and spat savagely at each other in the half darkness. 
They peered into corners, they rooted in the dying embers 
and among the ashes, they groped among the skins and 
blankets, they smelt and sniffed at every article. They paused 
at last apparently unsuccessful, and glared at each other. 

“They must have eaten it,’’ said Mrs. Brackett, in a 
hoarse whisper. 

“ It didn’t look like suthin’ to eat,” said Dumphy. 

“ You saw ’em take it from the fire ? ” 

“Yes !” 

“And rub it?” 

“ Yes ! ” 

“ FooL Don’t you see 

“What?” 

“ It was a baked potato.” 

Dumphy sat dumfounded. 

“ Why should they rub it ? it takes off the cracklin’ skins,” 
he said. 

“ They’ve got such fine stomachs ! ” answered Mrs. 
Brackett, with an oath. 

Dumphy was still aghast with the importance of his dis 
covery. 


20 Gabriel Conroy. 

“ He said he knew where there was more !’'he whispered 
eagerly. 

“ Where ? ” 

“ I didn’t get to hear.” 

“Fool ! Why didn’t ye rush in and grip his throat unti. 
he told yer ? ” hissed Mrs Brackett, in a tempest of baffled 
rage and disappointment. “ Ye ain’t got the spunk of a fleiL 
Let me get hold of that gal—Hush ! what’s that ? ” 

“ He’s moving ! ” said Dumphy. 

In an instant they had both changed again into slinking, 
crouching, baffled animals, eager only for escape. Yet they 
dared not move. 

The old man had turned over, and his lips were mov¬ 
ing in the mutterings of delirium. Presently he called 
“ Grace ! ” 

With a sign of caution to her companion, the woman 
leaned over him. 

“Yes, deary, I’m here.” 

“Tell him not to forget. Make him keep his promise. 
Ask him where it is buried ! ” 

“Yes, deary !” 

“ He’ll tell you. He knows ! ” 

“ Yes, deary ! ” 

“At the head of Monument Canon. A hundred feet 
north of the lone pine. Dig two feet down below the sur¬ 
face of the cairn.” 

“ Yes ! ” 

“ Where the wolves can’t get it.” 

“Yes!” 

“ The stones keep it from ravenous beasts," 

“Yes, in course.” 

“ That might tear it up.** 

“ Yes I ” 

“ Starving beasts J ** 


Gabriel, 


21 


“ Yes, deary ! ” 

The fire of his wandering eyes went out suddenly, like a 
randle ; his jaw dropped ; he was dead. And over him 
the man and woman crouched in rearful joy, looking at 
each other with the first smile that had been upon their lips 
since they had entered the fateful canon. 


CHAPTER HI. 

GABRIEL. 

It was found the next morning that the party was dimin¬ 
ished by five. Philip Ashley and Grace Conroy, Peter 
Dumphy and Mrs. lirackett, were missing; Dr. Paul Devarges 
was dead. The death of the old man caused but little 
excitement and no sorrow ; the absconding of the others 
was attributed to some information which they had selfishly 
withheld from the remaining ones, and produced a spasm of 
impotent rage. In five minutes their fury knew no bounds. 
'J1ie lives and property of the fugitives were instantly de¬ 
clared forfeit. Steps were taken—about twenty, I think—in 
the direction of their flight, but finally abandoned. 

Only one person knew that Philip and Grace had gone 
together—Gabriel Conroy. On awakening early that morn¬ 
ing he had found pinned to his blanket a paper with these 
words in pencil— 

“ God bless dear brother and sister, and keep them until 
Philip and 1 come back with help.” 

With it were a few scraps of provisions, evidently saved 
by Grace from her scant rations, and left as a parting gift. 
'I'hcse Gabriel instantly turned into the common stock. 
Then he began to comfort the child. Added to his natural 
Hopefulness, he had a sympathetic instinct with the pains 
ind penalties of childhood, not so much a quality of his 


22 Gabriel Conroy 

intellect as of his nature. He had all the physical adapta* 
bilities of a nurse—a large, tender touch, a low persuasive 
voice, pliant yet unhesitating limbs, and broad, well-cush¬ 
ioned surfaces. During the weary journey women had 
instinctively entrusted babies to his charge; most of the 
dead had died in his arms ; all forms and conditions of 
helplessness had availed themselves of his easy capacity. 
No one thought of thanking him. I do not think he ever 
expected it; he always appeared morally irresponsible and 
quite unconscious of his own importance, and, as is frequent 
in such cases, there was a tendency to accept his services at 
his own valuation. Nay more, there was a slight conscious¬ 
ness of superiority in those who thus gave him an oppor¬ 
tunity of exhibiting his special faculty. 

“ Oily,” he said, after an airy preliminary toss, “ would 
ye like to have a nice dolly ? ” 

Oily opened her wide hungry eyes in hopeful anticipation 
and nodded assent. 

“ A nice dolly, with real mamma,” he continued, “ who 
plays with it like a true baby. Would ye like to help her 
play with it ? ” 

The idea of a joint partnership of this kind evidently 
pleased Oily by its novelty. 

“Well then, brother Gabe will get you one. But Grade 
will have to go away, so that the doll’s mamma kin come.” 

Oily at first resented this, but eventually succumbed to 
novelty, after the fashion of her sex, starving or otherwise. 
Vet she prudently asked— 

“ Is it ever hungry ? ” 

“ It is never hungry,” replied Gabriel, confidently. 

“ Oh ! ” said Olly^ with an air of relief. 

Then Gabriel, the cunning, sought Mrs. Dumphy, the 
mentally alienated. 

“ You are jest killin’ of yourself with the tendin’ o’ that 



GabrieL 


23 

ehild,” lie said, after bestowing a caress on the blanket and 
slightly pinching an imaginary cheek of the effigy. “ It 
would be likelier and stronger fur a playmate. Good 
gracious ! how thin it is gettin’. A change will do it good ; 
fetch it to Oily, and let her help you to tend it until—until 
—to-morrow.” To-morrow was the extreme limit of Mrs, 
Dumphy’s future. 

So Mrs. Dumphy and her effigy were installed in Gracie’s 
place, and Oily was made happy. A finer nature or a more 
active imagination than Gabriel’s would have revolted at 
this monstrous combination ; but Gabriel only saw that they 
appeared contented, and the first pressing difficulty of 
Gracie’s absence was overcome. So alternately they took 
care of the effigy, the child simulating the cares of the future 
and losing the present in them, the mother living in the 
memories of the past. Perhaps it might have been pathetic 
to have seen Oily and Mrs. Dumphy both saving the infini¬ 
tesimal remnants of their provisions for the doll, but the 
only spectator was one of the actors, Gabriel, who lent him¬ 
self to the deception; and pathos, to be effective, must be 
viewed from the outside. 

At noon that day the hysterical young man, Gabriel’s 
cousin, died. Gabriel went over to the other hut and 
endeavoured to cheer the survivors. He succeeded in 
infecting them so far with his hopefulness as to loosen the 
tongue and imagination of the story-teller, but at four o'clock 
the body had not yet been buried. It was evening, and the 
tUree were sitting over the embers, when a singular change 
came over Mrs. Dumphy The effigy suddenly slipped from 
her hands, and looking up, Gabriel perceived that her arms 
had dropped to her side, and that her eyes were fixed on 
vacancy. He spoke to her, but she made no sign nor 
re«’X)nse of any kind. He touched her and found her limbs 
rigid and motionless. Oily began to cry. 


24 Gabriel Conroy, 

The sound seemed to agitate Mrs. Dumphy. Without 
moving a limb, she said, in a changed, unnatural voice, 
“Hark !” 

Oily choked her sobs at a sign from Gabriel 

“ They’re coming ! ” said Mrs. Dumphy. 

“ Which ? ” said Gabriel. 

“ The relief party.” 

“Where?” 

“ Far, far away. They re jest setting out. I see 'em— a 
dozen men with pack horses and provisions. The leader is 
an American—the others are strangers. They’re coming— 
but far, oh, so far away ! ” 

Gabriel fixed his eyes upon her, but did not speak. After 
a death-like pause, she went on— 

“ The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the grass is 
springing where they ride—but, oh, so far—too far away I” 

“ Do you know them ? ” asked Gabriel 

“ No.” 

“ Do they know us ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Why do they come, and how do they know where we 
are ? ” asked Gabriel 

“ Their leader has seen us.” 

“Where?” 

“ In a dream.” * 

Gabriel whistled and looked at the rag baby. He was 

* I fear I must task the incredulous reader’s further patience by 
calling attention to what may perhaps prove the most literal and 
thoroughly-attested fact of this otherwise fanciful chronicle. The 
condition and situation of the ill-famed “ Donner Party ”—then an 
unknown, unheralded cavalcade of emigrants—starving in an unfre¬ 
quented pass of the Sierras, was first made known to Captain Yount 
of Napa, in a dream. The .Spanish records of California show that the 
relief party which succoured the survivors was projected upon thi| 
spiritual information. 


Gabriel. 


25 


willing to recog/iise something abnormal, and perhaps even 
prophetic, in this insane woman; but a coincident exalta- 
jtioii in a stranger who was not suffering from the illusions 
produced by starvation was beyond his credulity. Neverthe¬ 
less, the instincts of good humour and hopefulness w^ere 
stromger, and he presently asked— 

“ How will they come ? ” 

“Up through a beautiful valley and a broad shining river. 
Then they will cross a mountain until they come to another 
beautiful valley with steep sides, and a rushing river that 
runs so near us that I can almost hear it now. Don’t you 
see it ? It is just beyond the snow peak there; a green 
valley, with the rain falling upon it. Look ! it is there.” 

She pointed directly north, toward the region of inhospit¬ 
able snow. 

“ Could you get to it ? ” asked the practical Gabriel 

“ No.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I must wait here for my baby. She is coming for uik 
She will find me here.” 

“ When ? ” 

“ To-morrow.” 

It was the last time that she uttered that well-worn 
sentence ; for it was only a little past midnight that her 
baby came to her—came to her with a sudden light, that 
might have been invisible to Gabriel, but that it was 
reflected in her own lack-lustre eyes—came to this poor 
half-witted creature with such distinctness that she half rose, 
stretched out her thin yearning arms, and received it— a 
corpse ! Gabriel placed the effigy in her arms and folded 
them over it. Then he ran swiftly to the other hut. For 
some unexplained reason he did not get further than the 
door. What he saw there he has never told ; but when he 
groped his fainting way back to his own hut again, his face 


26 Gabriel Conroy. 

was white and bloodless, and his eyes wild and staring. 
Only one impulse remained—to fly for ever from the cursed 
spot. He stopped only long enough to snatch up the 
sobbing and frightened Oily, and then, with a loud cry to 
God to help him—to help them —he dashed out, and was 
lost in the darkness. 


CHAPTER IV 

NATURE SHOWS THEM THE WAY. 

It was a spur of the long grave-like ridge that lay to the 
north of the canon. Up its gaunt white flank two figures 
had been slowly crawling since noon, until at sunset they at 
last stood upon its outer verge outlined against the sky— 
Philip and Grage. 

For all the fatigues of the journey, the want of nourishing 
food and the haunting shadow of the suffering she had 
left, the face of Grace, flushed with the dying sun, was very 
pretty. The boy’s dress she had borrowed was ill-fitting,, 
and made her exquisite little figure still more diminutive, but 
it could not entirely hide its graceful curves. Here in this 
rosy light the swooning fringes of her dark eyes were no 
longer hidden; the perfect oval of her face, even the few 
freckles on her short upper lip, were visible to Philip, l^artly 
as a physical support, partly to reassure her, he put his arm 
tenderly around her waist. Then he kissed her. It is 
possible that this last act was purely gratuitous. 

Howbeit Grace first asked, with the characteristic pru¬ 
dence of her sex, the question she had already asked 
many days before that day, “ Do you love me, Philip ? ” 
And Philip, with the ready frankness of our sex on such 
occasions, had invariably replied, “ I do.” 

Nevertheless the young man was pre-occupied, anxious 




Nature shows them the Way, 27 

and hangry. It was the fourth day since they had left the 
hut. On the second day they had found some pine cones 
with the nuts still intact and fresh beneath the snow, and 
later a squirrel’s hoard. On the third day Philip had killed 
the proprietor and eaten him. The same evening Philip 
had espied a duck winging his way up the canon. Philip, 
strong in the belief that some inland lake was the immedi¬ 
ate object of its flight, had first marked its course, and then 
brought it down with a long shot. Then having altered 
their course in accordance with its suggestion, they ate their 
guide next morning for breakfast. 

Philip was also disappointed. The summit of the spur 
so laboriously attained only showed him the same endless 
succession of white snow billows stretching rigidly to the 
horizon’s edge. There was no break—no glimpse of water¬ 
course or lake. There was nothing to indicate whence the 
bird had come or the probable point it was endeavouring to 
reach. He was beginning to consider the feasibility of 
again changing their course, when an unlooked-for accident 
took that volition from his hands. 

Grace had ventured out to the extreme limit of the rocky 
cliff, and with straining eyes was trying to peer beyond the 
snow fields, when the treacherous ledge on which she was 
standing began to give way. In an instant Philip was at 
her side and had caught her hand, but at the same moment 
a large rock of the ledge dropped from beneath her feet, 
and left her with no support but his grasp. The sudden 
phock loosened also the insecure granite on which Philip 
stood. Before he could gain secure foothold it also 
trembled, tottered, slipped, and then fell, carrying Philip 
and Grace with it. Luckily this immense mass of stone 
and ice got fairly away before them, and ploughed down the 
steep bank of the cliff, breaking off the projecting rocks 
and protuberances, and cutting a clean, though almost per 


28 


Gabriel Conroy, 

pendicular, path down the mountain side. Even in falling 
Philip had presence of mind enough to forbear clutching at 
the crumbling ledge, and so precipitating the rock that 
might crush them. Before he lost his senses he remem¬ 
bered tightening his grip of Grace’s arm, and drawing her 
face and head forward to his breast, and even in his uncon¬ 
sciousness it seemed that he instinctively guided her into 
the smooth passage or shoot ” made by the plunging rock 
below them; and even then he was half conscious of dash¬ 
ing into sudden material darkness and out again into light, 
and of the crashing and crackling of branches around him, 
and even the brushing of the stiff pine needles against his 
face and limbs. Then he felt himself stopped, and then, 
and then only, everything whirled confusedly by him, and 
his brain seemed to partake of the motion, and then—the 
relief of utter blankness and oblivion. When he regained 
his senses, it was with a burning heat in his throat, and the 
sensation of strangling. When he opened his eyes he saw 
Grace bending over him, pale and anxious, and chafing his 
hands and temples with snow. There was a spot of blood 
upon her round cheek. 

“You are hurt, Grace !” were the first words that Philip 
gasped. 

“ No !—dear, brave Philip—but only so thankful and 
happy for your escape.” Yet, at the same moment the 
colour faded from her cheek, and even the sun-kissed line 
of her upper lip grew bloodless, as she leaned back against 
a tree. 

But Philip did not see her. His eyes were rapidly taking 
in his strange surroundings. He was lying among the 
broken fragments of pine branches and the debris of the 
cliff above. In his ears was the sound of hurrying water 
and before him, scarce a hundred feet, a rushing river 
He looked up; the red glow of sunset was streaming 


Nature shows them the Way. 29 

through the broken limbs and shattered branches of the 
snow-thatched roof that he had broken through in his de¬ 
scent. Here and there along the river the same light was 
penetrating the interstices and openings of this strange vault 
that arched above this sunless stream. 

He knew now whence the duck had flown ! He knew 
now why he had not seen the water-course before ! He 
knew now where the birds and beasts had betaken them¬ 
selves—why the woods and canons were trackless ! Here 
was at last the open road! He staggered to his feet with a 
cry of delight. 

“ Grace, we are saved.” * 

Grace looked at him with eyes that perhaps spoke more 
eloquently of joy at his recovery than of comprehension of 
his delight. 

Look, Grace I this is Nature’s own road—only a lane, 
perhaps—but a clue to our way out of this wilderness. As 
we descend the stream it will open into a broader valley.” 

“ I know it,” she said, simply. 

Philip looked at her inquiringly. 

“ When I dragged you out of the way of the falling rocks 
and snow above, I had a glimpse of the valley you speak 
of. I saw it from there.” 

She pointed to a ledge of rock above the opening where 
the great stone that had fallen had lodged. 

“ When you dragged me, my child ? ” 

Grace smiled faintly. 

“ You don’t know how strong I am,” she said, and then 
proved it by fainting dead away. 

Philip started to his feet and ran to her side. Then he 
felt for the precious flask that he had preserved so sacredly 
through all their hardships, but it was gone. He glanced 
around him; it was lying on the snow, empty ! For the 
first time in their weary pilgrimage Philip uttered a groan 


30 


Gabriel Conroy. 

At the sound Grace opened her sweet eyes. She saw hei 
lover with the empty flask in his hand, and smiled faintly. 

“I poured it all down your throat, dear,” ?he said* 
“You looked so faint—I thought you were dying—forgive 
me! ” 

“ But I was only stunned ; and you, Grace, you — 

“Am better now,” she said, as she strove to rise. But 
she uttered a weak little cry and fell back again. 

Philip did not hear her. He was already climbing the 
ledge she had spoken of When he returned his face was 
joyous. 

“I see it, Grace ; it is only a few miles away. It is still 
light, and we shall camp there to-night.” 

“I am afraid—not—dear Philip,” said Grace, doubtfully. 

“ Why not ? ” asked Philip, a^ little impatiently. 

“ Because—I—think—my leg is broken ! ” 

“ Grace ! ” 

But she had fainted. 


CHAPTER V. 

OUT OF THE WOODS—INTO THE SHADOW, 

Happily Grace was wrong. Her ankle was severely 
sprained, and she could not stand. Philip tore up his 
shirt, and, with bandages dipped in snow water, wrapped 
up the swollen limb. Then he knocked over a quail in the 
bushes and another duck, and clearing away the brush 
for a camping spot, built a fire, and tempted the young girl 
with a hot supper. The peril of starvation passed, their 
greatest danger was over—a few days longer of enforced 
rest and inactivity was the worst to be feared. 

The air had grown singularly milder with the last few 
hours. At midnight a damp breeze stirred the pine needlei 


Out of the Woods. 31 

above their heads, and an ominous muffled beating was 
heard upon the snow-packed vault It was rain. 

“ It is the reveille of spring!” whispered Philip. 

But Grace was in no mood for poetry—even a lover s. 
he let her head drop upon his shoulder, and then 
6aid— 

“ You must go on, dear, and leave me here.” 

“ Grace ! ” 

“Yes, Philip ! I can live till you come back. I fear no 
danger now. I am so much better off than they are ! ” 

A few tears dropped on his hand. Philip winced. Perhaps 
it wa^ his conscience; perhaps there was something in the 
girl’s tone, perhaps because she had once before spoken in 
the same way, but it jarred upon a certain quality in his nature 
which he was pleased to call his “ common sense.” Philip 
really believed himself a high-souled, thoughtless, ardent, im¬ 
petuous temperament, saved only from destruction by the 
occasional dominance of this quality. 

For a moment he did not speak. He thought how, at the 
risk of his own safety, he had snatched this girl from terrible 
death; he thought how he had guarded her through their 
perilous journey, taking all the burdens upon himself; he 
thought how happy he had made her—how she had even 
admitted her happiness to him ; he thought of her present 
helplessness, and how willing he was to delay the journey 
on her account; he dwelt even upon a certain mysterious, 
ill-defined but blissful future with him to which he was 
taking her; and yet here, at the moment of their possible 
deliverance, she was fretting about two dying people, who, 
vithout miraculous interference, would be dead before she 
x)uld reach them. It was part of Philip’s equitable self-exam- 
mation—a fact of which he was very proud—that he always 
>ut himself in the position of the person with whom he dif¬ 
fered, and imagined how h<, would act under the like circum* 


3 2 Gabriel Conroy. 

stances. Perhaps it is hardly necessary to say that Philip 
always found that his conduct under those conditions would 
be totally different. In the present instance, putting himGclf 
in Grace’s position, he felt that he would have abandoned 
all and everything for a love and future like hers. That 
she did not was evidence of a moral deficiency or a blood 
taint. T-ogic of this kind is easy and irrefutable. It hai 
been known to obtain even beyond the Sierras, and with 
people who were not physically exhausted. After a pause 
he said to Grace, in a changed voice— 

“ Let us talk plainly for a few moments, Grace, and under¬ 
stand each other before we go forward or backward. It is 
five days since we left the hut; were we even certain of 
finding our wandering way back again, we could not reach 
there before another five days had elapsed; by that time 
all will be over. They have either been saved or are beyond 
the reach of help. This sounds harsh, Grace, but it is no 
harsher than the fact. Had we stayed, we would, without 
helping them, have only shared their fate. I might have been 
in your brother’s place, you in your sister’s. It is our fortune, 
not our fault, that we are not dying with them. It has been 
willed that you and I should be saved. It might have been 
willed that we should have perished in our attempts to suc- 
vtour them, and that relief which came to them would have 
never reached wj.” 

Grace was no logician, and could not help thinking that 
if Philip had said this before, she would not have left the 
hut. But the masculine reader will, I trust, at once detect 
the irrelevance of the feminine suggestion, and observe that 
it did not refute Philip’s argument. She looked at him 
with a half frightened air. Perhaps it was the tears that 
dimmed her eyes, but his few words seemed to have removed 
nim to a great distance, and for the first time a strange sense 
of loneliness came over her. She longed to reach her yearn- 


Out of the Woods. 33 

ing arms to him again, but with this feeling came a sense 
cf shame that she had not felt before. 

Philip noticed her hesitation, and half interpreted it. He 
let her passive head fall. 

“ Perhaps we had better wait until we are ourselves out 
of danger before we talk of helping others,” he said with 
something of his old bitterness. “ This accident may keep 
us here some days, and we know not as yet where we are. 
Go to sleep now,” he said more kindly, and in the morn¬ 
ing we will see what can be done.” 

Grace sobbed herself to sleep ! Poor, poor Grace ! She 
had been looking for this opportunity of speaking about 
herself—about their future. This was to have been the 
beginning of her confidence about Dr. Devarges’s secret; 
she would have told him frankly all the doctor had said, 
even his suspicions of Philip himself. And then Philip 
would have been sure to have told her his plans, and they 
would have gone back with help, and Philip would have 
been a hero whom Gabriel would have instantly recognised 
as the proper husband for Grace, and they would have all 
been very happy. And now they were all dead, and had 
died, perhaps, cursing her, and—Philip—Philip had not 
kissed her good-night, and was sitting gloomily under a tree ! 

The dim light of a leaden morning broke through the 
snow vault above their heads. It was raining heavily, the 
river had risen, and was still rising. It was filled with 
drift and branches, and snow and ice, the waste and ware 
of many a mile. Occasionally a large uprooted tree with a 
gaunt forked root like a mast sailed by. Suddenly Philip, 
who had been sitting with his chin upon his hands, rose 
with a shout. Grace looked up languidly. He pointed to 
a tree that, floating by, had struck the bank where they sat, 
and then drifted broadside against it, where for a moment 
it lay motionless. 

VOI„ IV. ^ 


34 Gabriel Conroy. 

“ Grace,” he said, with his old spirits, “ Nature has taken 
ns in hand herself. If we are to be saved, it is by her 
methods. She brought us here to the water’s edge, and 
now she sends a boat to take us off again. Come ! ” 

Before Grace could reply, Philip had lifted her gaily in 
his arms, and deposited her between two upright roots of 
the tree. Then he placed beside her his rifle and pro¬ 
visions, and leaping himself on the bow of this strange craft, 
shoved it off with a broken branch that he had found. For 
a moment it still clung to the bank, and then suddenly 
catching the impulse of the current, darted away like a 
living creature. 

The river was very narrow and rapid where they had 
embarked, and for a few moments it took all of Philip’s: 
energy and undivided attention to keep the tree in the; 
centre of the current. Grace sat silent, admiring her lover, 
alert, forceful, and glowing with excitement. Presently 
Philip called to her— • 

“ Do you see that log ? We are near a settlement.” 

A freshly-hewn log of pine was floating in the current 
beside them. A ray of hope shot through Grace’s sad 
fancies ; if they were so near help, might not it have already 
reached the sufferers ? But she forbore to speak to Philip 
again upon that subject, and in his new occupation he 
seemed to have forgotten her. It was with a little thrill of 
joy that at last she saw him turn, and balancing himself with 
his bough upon their crank craft, walk down slowly toward 
her. When he reached her side he sat down, and, taking 
her hand in his, for the first time since the previous night, 
he said gently— 

“ Grace, my child, I have something to tell you.” 

Grace’s little heart throbbed quickly; for a moment she 
did n-jt dare to lift her long lashes toward his. Without 
noticii.g her embarrassment he went on — 


Footprints. 35 

“ In a few hours we shall be no longer in the wilderness, 
but in the world again—in a settlement perhaps, among 
men and—perhaps women. Strangers certainly—not the 
relatives you have known, and who know you—not the 
people with whom we have been familiar for so many weeks 
and days—but people who know nothing of us, or our 
sufferings.” 

Grace looked at him, but did not speak. 

“ You understand, Grace, that, not knowing this, they 
might put their own construction upon our flight. 

“To speak plainly, my child, you are a young woman, and 
I am a young man. Your beauty, dear Grace, offers an ex¬ 
planation of our companionship that the world will accept 
more readily than any other, and the truth to many would 
seem scarcely as natural For this reason it must not be 
told. 1 will go back alone with relief, and leave you here 
in some safe hands until I return. But I leave you here 
not as Grace Conroy—you shall take my own name ! ” 

A hot flush mounted to Grace’s throat and cheek, and 
for an instant^ with parted lips, she hung breathless upon 
his next word. He continued quietly— 

“ You shall be my sister—Grace Ashley.” 

The blood fell from her cheek, her eyelids dropped, and 
she buried her face in her hands. Philip waited patiently 
for her reply. When she lifted her face again, it was quiet 
and calm—there was even a slight flush of proud colour in 
her cheek as she met his gaze, and with the faintest curl of 
her upper lip said— 

“ You are right ! ” 

At the same moment there was a sudden breaking of light 
and warmth and sunshine over their heads ; the tree swiftly 
swung round a sharp curve in the river, and then drifted 
slowly into a broad, overflowed valley, sparkling with the 
emerald of gently sloping hilhides, and dazzling with the 


36 Gabriel Conroy, 

glow of the noonday sun. And beyond, from a clustei of 
willows scarcely a mile away, the smoke of a cabin chimney 
curled in the still air. 


CHAPTER VL 

FOOTPRINTS. 

For two weeks an unclouded sun rose and set on the rigid 
outlines of Monument Point. For two weeks there had been 
no apparent change in the ghastly whiteness of the snow'- 
flanked rocks; in the white billows that rose rank on rank 
beyond, in the deathlike stillness that reigned above and 
below. It was the first day of April; there was the mildness 
of early spring in the air that blew over this gaunt waste, 
and yet awoke no sound or motion. And yet a nearer ap¬ 
proach showed that a slow insidious change had been taking 
place. The white flanks of the mountain were more hol¬ 
low ; the snow had shrunk visibly away in places, leaving 
the grey rocks naked and protuberant; the rigid outlines 
were there, but less full and rounded; the skeleton was 
beginning to show through the wasting flesh; there were 
great patches of snow that had sloughed away, leaving the 
gleaming granite bare below. It was the last change of the 
Hippocratic face that Nature turned toward the spectator. 
And yet this change had been noiseless—the solitude 
unbroken. 

And then one day there suddenly drifted across the 
deathlike valley the chime of jingling spurs and the sound 
of human voices. Down the long defile a cavalcade of 
mounted men and pack mules made their way, plunging 
through drifts and clattering over rocks. The unwonted 
sound awoke the long slumbering echoes of the mountain, 
brought down small avalanches • from cliff and tree, and at 


Footprints. 3 7 

last brought from some cavern of the rocks to the surface of 
the snow a figure so wild, haggard, dishevelled and mon¬ 
strous, that it was scarcely human. It crawled upon the 
snow, dodging behind rocks with the timidity of a frightened 
animal, and at last, squatting behind a tree, awaited in am¬ 
bush the approach of the party. 

Two men rode ahead; one grave, preoccupied, and 
reticent The other alert, active, and voluble. At last the 
reticent man spoke, but slowly, and as if recalling a memory 
rather than recording a present impression. 

“ They cannot be far away from us now. It was in 
some such spot that I first saw them. The place is 
familiar.” 

“ Heaven send that it may be ! ” said the other hastily, 
“ for to tell you the truth, I doubt if we will be able to keep 
the men together a day longer in this crazy quest, unless we 
discover something.” 

“ It was here,” continued the other dreamily, not heeding 
his companion, “ that I saw the figures of a man and woman. 
If there is not a cairn of stone somewhere about this spot, I 
shall believe my dream false, and confess myself an old 
fool.” 

“ Well—as I said before,” rejoined the other, laughing, 
“ anything—a scrap of paper, an old blanket, or a broken 
waggon-tongue will do. Columbus helped his course and 
kept up his crew on a fragment of seaweed. But what are 
the men looking at ? Great God 1 There is something 
moving by yonder rock ! ” 

By one common superstitious instinct the whole party 
had crowded together—those who, a few moments before, 
had been loudest in their scepticism, held their breath with 
awe, and trembled with excitement—as the shambling 
figure that had watched them enter the canon rose from its 
Uir, and taking upon itself a human semblance, with uncouth 


38 Gabriel Conroy. 

gestures and a strange hoarse cry made towards them. 
It was Dumphy ! 

The leader was the first to recover himself. He advanced 
from the rest and met Dumphy half-way. 

“ Who are you ? ” 

“A man.” 

“ What^s the matter ? ” 

“ Starving.” 

Where are the others ? 

Dumphy cast a suspicious glance at him and said— 
“Who?” 

** The others. You are not alone ? ” 

“ Yes, I am 1 ” 

“ How did you get here ? ” 

“ What’s that to you ? I’m here and starving. Gimme 
suthin’ to eat and drink.” 

He sank exhaustedly on all fours again. 

There was a murmur of sympathy from the men. 

“ Give him suthin’. Don’t you see he can’t stand-^ 
much less talk ? Where’s the doctor ? ” 

And then the younger of the leaders thus adjured— 
“ Leave him to me — he wants my help just now more 
than yours.” 

He poured some brandy down his throat. Dumphy 
gasped, and then staggered to his feet 

“ What did you say your name was ? ” asked the young 
surgeon kindly. 

“Jackson,” said Dumphy, with a defiantly blank look. 

“ Where from ? ” 

“ Missouri.” 

“ How did you get here ? ” 

“ Strayed from my party.” 

And they are-” 

‘‘Gone on. Gimme suthin’ to eat!” 


Footprints. 39 

•* Take him back to camp and hand him over to Sanchez. 
He’ll know what to do,” said the surgeon to one of the men. 
“ Well, Blunt,” he continued, addressing the leader, “ you’re 
saved—but your nine men in buckram have dwindled down 
to one, and not a very creditable specimen at that,” he said, 
as his eyes followed the retreating Dumphy. 

“ I wish it were all, doctor,” said Blunt simply; “ I 
would be willing to go back now, but something tells me 
we have only begun. This one makes everything else 
possible. What have you there ? ” 

One of the men was approaching, holding a slip of paper 
with ragged edges, as if torn from some position where it 
had been nailed. 

‘‘A notiss—from a tree. Me no sabe,” said the ex- 
vaquero. 

“Nor I,” said Blunt, looking at it; “it seems to be in 
German. Call Glohr.” 

A tall Swiss came forward. Blunt handed him the paper. 
The man examined it 

“It is a direction to find property—important and 
valuable property—buried.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ Under a cairn of stones.” 

The surgeon and Blunt exchanged glances. 

“ Lead us there ! ” said Blunt 

It was a muffled monotonous tramp of about an hour. At 
the end of that time they reached a spur of the mountain 
around which the canon turned abruptly. Blunt uttered 
a cry. Before them was a ruin—a rude heap of stone? 
originally symmetrical and elevated, but now thrown down 
and dismantled. The snow and earth were torn up around 
and beneath it. On the snow lay some scattered papers, 
a portfolio of drawings of birds and flowers : a glass case 
of insects broken and demolished, and the scattered feathers 


40 Gabriel Conroy. 

of a few stuffed birds. At a little distance lay what seemed 
to be a heap of ragged clothing. At the sight of it the 
nearest horseman uttered a shout and leaped to the ground. 
It was Mrs. Brackett, dead. 


CHAPTER VIL 

IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS BEGIN TO FADE. 

She had been dead about a week. The features and cloth¬ 
ing were scarcely recognizable; the limbs were drawn up 
convulsively. The young surgeon bent over her attentively. 

“ Starved to death ? ” said Blunt interrogatively. 

The surgeon did not reply, but rose and examined the 
scattered specimens. One of them he picked up and 
placed first to his nose and then to his lips. After a pause 
he replied quietly— 

“ No. Poisoned.” 

The men fell back from the body. 

“ Accidentally, I think,” continued the surgeon coolly ; 
“ the poor creature has been driven by starvation to attack 
the specimens. They have been covered with a strong 
solution of arsenic to preserve them from the ravages of 
insects, and this starving woman has been the first to fall 
a victim to the collector’s caution.” 

There was a general movement of horror and indignation 
among the men. “Shoost to keep dem birds,” said the 
irate Swiss. “ Killing women to save his cussed game,’* 
said another. The surgeon smiled. It was an inauspi¬ 
cious moment for Dr. Devarges to have introduced himseli 
m person. 

'‘If this enthusiastic naturalist is still living, I hope he’ll 
keep away from the men for some hours,” said the surgeon 
No Blunt, privately. 


41 


The Footprints begin to Fade, 

Who is he ? ” asked the other. 

“A foreigner—a savant of some note, I should say, in 
his own country. I think I have heard the name before— 
‘ Devarges,’ ” replied the surgeon, looking over some papers 
that he had picked up. “ He speaks of some surprising dis¬ 
coveries he has made, and evidently valued his collection 
very highly.” 

“Are they worth re-collecting and preserving?” asked 
Blunt 

“Not now !” said the surgeon. “Every moment is 
precious. Humanity first, science afterward,” he added 
lightly, and they rode on. 

And so the papers and collections preserved with such 
care, the evidence of many months of patient study, priva¬ 
tion, and hardship, the records of triumph and discovery 
were left lying upon the snow. The wind came down the 
flanks of the mountain and tossed them hither and thither 
as if in scorn, and the sun, already fervid, heating the 
metallic surfaces of the box and portfolio, sank them deeper 
in the snow, as if to bury them from the sight for ever. 

By skirting the edge of the valley where the snow had 
fallen away from the mountain-side, they reached in a few 
hours the blazed tree at the entrance of the fateful canon. 
The placard was still there, but the wooden hand that 
once pointed in the direction of the buried huts had, 
through some mischance of wind or weather, dropped 
slightly, and was 3minously pointing to the snow below. 
This was still so deep in drifts that the party were obliged 
to leave their horses and enter the canon a-foot. Almost 
unconsciously, this was done in perfect silence, walking in 
single file, occasionally climbing up the sides of the canon 
where the rocks offered a better foothold than the damp 
snow, until they reached a wooden chimney and part ot a 
roof that now reared itself above the snow. Here they 


42 Gabriel Conroy. 

paused and looked at each other. The leader approached 
the chimney, and leaning over it called within. 

There was no response. Presently, however, the canon 
took up the shout and repeated it, and then there was a 
silence broken only by the falling of an icicle from a rock, 
or a snow slide from the hill above. Then all was quiet 
again, until Blunt, after a moment’s hesitation, walked 
around to the opening and descended into the hut. He 
had scarcely disappeared, as it seemed, before he returned, 
looking very white and grave, and beckoned to the surgeon. 
He instantly followed. After a little, the rest of the party, 
one after another, went down. They stayed some time, 
and then came slowly to the surface bearing three dead 
bodies. They returned again quickly, and then brought up 
the dissevered members of a fourth. This done they looked 
at each other in silence. 

“ There should be another cabin here,’^ said Blunt after 
a pause. 

“ Here it is! ” said one of the men, pointing to the 
chimney of the second hut. 

There was no preliminary “ hallo ! ” or hesitation now. 
The worst was known. They all passed rapidly to the 
opening, and disappeared within. When they returned to 
the surface they huddled together—a whispering but excited 
group. They were so much preoccupied that they did not 
see that their party was suddenly increased by the presence 
of a stranger. 


The Footprints grow Fainter. 


43 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FOOTPRINTS GROW FAINTER, 

It was Philip Ashley ! Philip Ashley—faded, travel-worn, 
hollow-eyed, but nervously energetic and eager. Philip, 
who four days before had left Grace the guest of a hospi¬ 
table trapper’s half-breed family in the California Valley. 
Philip—gloomy, discontented, hateful of the quest he had 
undertaken, but still fulfilling his promise to Grace and 
the savage dictates of his own conscience. It was Philip 
Ashley, who now standing beside the hut, turned half- 
cynically, half-indifferently toward the party. 

The surgeon was first to discover him. He darted for¬ 
ward with a cry of recognition, “ Poinsett! Arthuf !—what 
are you doing here ?” 

Ashley’s face flushed crimson at the sight of the stranger. 

Hush ! ” he said almost involuntarily. He glanced rapidly 
around the group, and then in some embarrassment replied 
with awkward literalness, “ I left my horse with the others 
at the entrance of the canon.” 

“ I see,” said the surgeon briskly, “ you have come with 
"•elief like ourselves ; but you are too late ! too late ! ” 

“Too late !” echoed Ashley. 

“ Yes, they are all dead or gone ! ” 

A singular expression crossed Ashley’s face. It was 
unnoticed by the surgeon, who was whispering to Blunt 
Presently he came forward. 

“ Captain Blunt, this is Lieutenant Poinsett of the Fifth 
Infantry, an old messmate of mine, whom I have not met 
before for two years. He is here, like ourselves, on an 
errand of mercy. It is like him ! ” 

The unmistakable air of high breeding and intelligence 


44 Gabriel Conroy, 

which distinguished Philip always, and the cordial endorse¬ 
ment of the young surgeon, prepossessed the party instantly 
in his favour. With that recognition, something of his singu¬ 
lar embarrassment dropped away. 

“ Who are those people ? ” he ventured at last to say. 

“ Their names are on this paper, which we found nailed 
to a tree. Of course, with no survivor present, we are unable 
to identify them all. The hut occupied by Dr. Devarges, 
whose body, buried in the snow, we have identified by his 
clothing, and the young girl Grace Conroy and her child- 
sister, are the only ones we are positive about.” 

Philip looked at the doctor. 

“ How havQ you identified the young girl ? ” 

“ By her clothing, which was marked.” 

Philip remembered that Grace had changed her clothes 
for the Sliit of a younger brother who was dead. 

“ Only by that ? ” he asked. 

“ No. Dr. Devarges in his papers gives the names of the 
occupants of the hut. We have accounted for all but her 
brother, and a fellow by the name of Ashley.” 

“ How do you account for them ? ” asked Philip with a 
dark face. 

“Ran away 1 What can you expect from that class of 
people ? ” said the surgeon with a contemptuous shrug. 

“ What class ? ” asked Philip almost savagely. 

“ My dear boy,” said the surgeon, “ you know them at 
well as I. Didn’t they always pass the Fort where we were 
stationed? Didn’t they beg what they could, and steal 
what they otherwise couldn’t get, and then report to Wash¬ 
ington the incompetency of the military? Weren’t they 
always getting up rows with the Indians and then sneaking 
away to let us settle the bill ? Don’t you remember them—• 
the men gaunt, sickly, vulgar, low-toned; the women dirty, 
snuffy, prematurely old and prematurely prolific ? ” 


The Footprints grow Fainter. 45 

Philip tried to combat this picture with his recollection 
of Grace’s youthful features, but somehow failed. Within 
the last half-hour his instinctive fastidiousness had increased 
a hundredfold. He looked at the doctor, and said “ Yes.” 

“ Of course,” said the surgeon. “ It was the old lot 
What could you expect ? People who could be strong 
only in proportion to their physical strength, and losing 
everything with the loss of that ? There have been selfish¬ 
ness, cruelty—God knows—perhaps murder done here! ” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Philip, hastily; “but you were speaking 
of this girl, Grace Conroy ; what do you know of her ? ” 
“Nothing, except that she was found lying there dead 
with her name on her clothes and her sister’s blanket in her 
arms, as if the wretches had stolen the dying child from the 
dead girl’s arms. But you, Arthur, how chanced you to be 
here in this vicinity ? Are you stationed here ? ” 

“No, I have resigned from the army.” 

“ Good ! and you are here ”- 

“ Alone 1 ” 

“ Come, we will talk this over as we return. You will 
help me make out my report. This you know, is an official 
inquiry, based upon the alleged clairvoyant quality of our 
friend Blunt. I must say we have established that fact, if 
we have been able to do nothing more.” 

The surgeon then lightly sketched an account of the expe¬ 
dition, from its inception in a dream of Blunt (who was 
distinctly impressed with the fact that a number of emigrants 
were perishing from hunger in the Sierras) to his meeting 
with Philip, with such deftness of cynical humour and play¬ 
ful satire—qualities that had lightened the weariness of the 
mess-table of Fort Bobadil—t'nat the young men were both 
presently laughing. Two or three of the party who had been 
engaged in laying out the unburied bodies, and talking in 
whispers, hearing these fine gentlemen make light of the 



46 Gabriel Co 7 iroy, 

calamity, in well-chosen epithets, were somewhat ashamed 
of their own awe, and less elegantly, and I fear less gram¬ 
matically, began to be jocose too. Whereat the fastidious 
Philip frowned, the surgeon laughed, and the two friends 
returned to the entrance of the canon, and thence rode out 
of the valley together. 

Philip’s reticence regarding his own immediate past was 
too characteristic to excite any suspicion or surprise in the 
mind of his friend. In truth, the doctor was too well 
pleased with his presence, and the undoubted support which 
he should have in Philip’s sympathetic tastes and congenial 
habits, to think of much else. He was proud of his friend 
—proud of the impression he had made among the rude 
unlettered men with whom he was forced by the conditions 
of frontier democracy to associate on terms of equality. 
And Philip, though young, was accustomed to have his 
friends proud of him. Indeed, he always felt some com¬ 
placency with himself that he seldom took advantage of 
this fact. Satisfied that he might have confided to the 
doctor the truth of his connection with the ill-fated party 
and his flight with Grace, and that the doctor would 
probably have regarded him as a hero, he felt less com¬ 
punction at his suppression of the fact. 

Their way lay by Monument Point and the dismantled 
cairn. Philip had already passed it on his way to the 
canon, and had felt a thankfulness for the unexpected 
tragedy that had, as he believed, conscientiously relieved 
him of a duty to the departed naturalist, yet he could not 
forego a question. 

“ Is there anything among these papers and collections 
worth our preserving ? ” he asked the surgeon. 

The doctor, who had not for many months had an 
opportunity to air his general scepticism, was nothing if not 
derogatory. 


The Footprints are Lost for Ever, 47 

“No,” he answered, shortly. “ If there were any way 
that we might restore them to the living Dr. Devarges, they 
might minister to his vanity, and please the poor fellow. I 
see nothing in them that should make them worthy to sur¬ 
vive him.” 

The tone was so like Dr. Devarges’ own manner, as 
Philip remembered it, that he smiled grimly and felt 
relieved. When they reached the spot Nature seemed to 
have already taken the same cynical view ; the metallic case 
was already deeply sunken in the snow, the wind had 
scattered the papers far and wide, and even the cairn itself 
had tumbled into a shapeless, meaningless ruin. 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS ARE LOST FOR EVER. 

A FERVID May sun had been baking the adobe walls of the 
Presidio of San Geronimo, firing the red tiles, scorching the 
black courtyard, and driving the mules and vaqueros of a 
train that had just arrived into the shade of the long 
galleries of the quadrangle, when the Comandante^ who was 
taking his noonday siesta in a low, studded chamber beside 
the guard-room, was gently awakened by his secretary. For 
thirty years the noonday slumbers of the Commander had 
never been broken; his first thought was the heathen !— 
his first impulse to reach for his trusty Toledo. But, as it 
tiO happened, the cook had borrowed it that morning to 
rake tortillas from the Presidio oven, and Don Jose 
Salvatierra contented himself with sternly demanding the 
reason for this unwonted intrusion. 

“ A senorita — an American — desires an immediate 
audience.” 


48 Gabriel Conroy. 

Don Jos^ removed the black silk handkerchief which he 
had tied round his grizzled brows, and sat up. Before 
he could assume a more formal attitude, the door was 
timidly opened, and a young girl entered. For all the 
disfigurement of scant, coarse, ill-fitting clothing, or the 
hollowness of her sweet eyes, and even the tears that 
dimmed their long lashes; for all the sorrow that had 
pinched her young cheek and straightened the corners of 
her childlike mouth, she was still so fair, so frank, so youth¬ 
ful, so innocent and helpless, that the Coma7idante stood 
erect, and then bent forward in a salutation that almost 
swept the floor. Apparently the prepossession was mutual. 
The young girl took a quick survey of the gaunt but gentle¬ 
manlike figure before her, cast a rapid glance at the serious 
but kindly eyes that shone above the Commander’s iron- 
grey mustachios, dropped her hesitating, timid manner, and, 
with an impulsive gesture and a little cry, ran forward and 
fell upon her knees at his feet. The Commander would 
have raised her gently, but she restrained his hand. 

“ No, no, listen! I am only a poor, poor girl, without 
friends or home. A month ago, I left my family starving 
in the mountains, and came away to get them help. My 
brother came with me. God was good to us, Sehor, and 
after a weary tramp of many days we found a trapper’s hut, 
and food and shelter. Philip, my brother, went back alone 
to succour them. He has not returned. Oh, sir, he may 
be dead; they all may be dead—God only knows! It is 
three weeks ago since he left me; three weeks ! It is a 
long time to be alone, Senor, a stranger in a strange 
land. The trapper was kind, and sent me here to you for 
assistance. You will help me? I know you will. You 
will find them, my friends, my little sister, my brother I ” 

The Commander waited until she had finished, and then 
gently lifted her to a seat by his side. Then he turned to 


The Footprints are Lost for Ever. 49 

his secretary, who, with a few hurried words in Spanish, 
answered the mute inquiry of the Commander’s eyes. The 
young girl felt a thrill of disappointment as she saw that 
her personal appeal had been lost and unintelligible; it 
was with a slight touch of defiance that was new to her 
nature that she turned to the secretary who advanced as 
interpreter. 

“You are an American ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the girl, curtly, who had taken one of the 
strange, swift, instinctive dislikes of her sex to the man. 

“ How many years ? ” 

“ Fifteen.” 

The Commander, almost unconsciously, laid his brown 
hand on her clustering curls. 

“ Name ?” 

She hesitated and looked at the Commander. 

“ Grace,” she said. 

Then she hesitated; and, with a defiant glance at the 
secretary, added— 

“ Grace Ashley! ” 

“ Give to me the names of some of your company, Mees 
Graziashly.” 

Grace hesitated. 

“Philip Ashley, Gabriel Conroy, Peter Dumphy, Mrs. 
Jane Dumphy,” she said at last. 

The secretary opened a desk, took out a printed docu¬ 
ment, unfolded it, and glanced over its contents. Presently 
/le handed it to the Commander with the comment “ Bueno” 
The Commander said Bueno” also, and glanced kindly 
and reassuringly at Grace. 

“ An expedition from the upper Presidio has found traces 
of a party of Americans in the Sierra,” said the secretary^ 
monotonously. “ There are names like these.” 

“ It is the same—it is our party ! ” said Grace, joyously. 


50 


Gabriel Conroy. 

** You say so ? ” said the secretary, cautiously. 

“ Yes,” said Grace, defiantly. 

The secretary glanced at the paper again, and then said, 
looking at Grace intently— 

‘‘ There is no name of Mees Graziashly.” 

The hot blood suddenly dyed the cheek of Grace and 
her eyelids dropped. She raised her eyes imploringly to 
the Commander. If she could have reached him directly, 
she would have thrown herself at his feet and confessed her 
innocent deceit, but she shrank from a confidence that first 
filtered through the consciousness of the secretary. So she 
began to fence feebly with the issue. 

“ It is a mistake,” she said. “ But the name of Philip, 
my brother, is there ? ” 

“ The name of Philip Ashley is here,” said the secretary, 
grimly. 

“ And he is alive and safe ! ” cried Grace, forgetting in 
her relief and joy her previous shame and mortification. 

“ He is not found,” said the secretary. 

** Not found ? ” said Grace, with widely opened eyes. 

“ He is not there.” 

“ No, of course,” said Grace, with a nervous hysterical 
laugh ; “ he was with me ; but he came back—he returned.” 

“ On the 30 th of April there is no record of the finding 
of Philip Ashley.” 

Grace groaned and clasped her hands. In her greater 
anxiety now, all lesser fears were forgotten. She turned 
and threw herself before the Commander. 

Oh, forgive me, Senor, but I swear to you I meant no 
narm ! Philip is not my brother, but a friend, so kind, so 
good. He asked me to take his name, poor boy, God 
knows if he will ever claim it again, and I did. My name 
is not Ashley. I know not what is in that paper, but it 
must tell of my brother, Gabriel, my sister, of all! O 


The Footprints are Lost for Ever, 51 

Senor, are they living or dead ? Answer me you must—for 
—I am—I am Grace Conroy ! ” 

The secretary had refolded the paper. He opened it 
again, glanced over it, fixed his eyes upon Grace, and, 
pointing to a paragraph, handed it to the Commander. 
The two men exchanged glances, the Commander coughed, 
rose, and averted his face from the beseeching eyes of 
Grace. A sudden death-like chill ran through her limbs 
as, at a word from the Commander, the secretary rose and 
placed the paper in her hands. 

Grace took it with trembling fingers. It seemed to be a 
proclamation in Spanish. 

I cannot read it,” she said, stamping her little foot with 
passionate vehemence. “ Tell me what it says.” 

At a sign from the Commander, the secretary opened the 
paper and arose. The Commander, with his face averted, 
looked through the open window. The light streaming 
through its deep, tunnel-like embrasure, fell upon the cen¬ 
tral figure of Grace, with her shapely head slightly bent for¬ 
ward, her lips apart, and her eager, passionate eyes fixed 
upon the Commander. The secretary cleared his throat in 
a perfunctory manner; and, with the conscious pride of an 
irreproachable linguist, began— 

“ NOTICE. 

*'to his excellency the comandante of the presidio of 

SAN FELIPE. 

“ I have the honour to report that the expedition sent out to relieve 
certain distressed emigrants in the fastnesses of the Sierra Nevadas, 
sai<l exp#*dition being sent on the information of Don Jose Eluent of 
San Geronimo, found in a cahca east of the Canada del Diablo the 
evidences of the recent existence of suclL emigrants buried in the snow, 
tnd the melancholy and deeply-to-be-deplored record of their suffer- 
.ngs, abandonment, and death. A written record preserved by these 
miserable and most infelicitous ones gives the names and history of their 


52 Gabriel Conroy, 

organisation, known as ‘Captain Conroy’s Party,’ a copy of which it 
annexed below. 

“The remains of five of these unfortunates were recovered from the 
snow, but it was impossible to identify but two, who were buried with 
sacred and reverential rites. 

“Our soldiers behaved with that gallantry, coolness, patriotism, in* 
flexible hardihood, and high-principled devotion which ever animate 
the swelling heart of the Mexican warrior. Nor can too much praise 
be given to the voluntary efforts of one Don Arthur Poinsett, late 
Lieutenant of the Army of the United States of America, who, though 
himself a voyager and stranger, assisted our commander in the efforts 
of humanity. 

“ The wretched dead appeared to have expired from hunger, although 
one was evidently a victim ”- 

The tongue of the translator hesitated a moment, and 
then with an air of proud superiority to the difficulties of 
the English language, he resumed— 

“ A victim to fly poison. It is to be regretted that among the vio 
tims was the famous Doctor Paul Devarges, a Natural, and collector of 
the stuffed Bird and Beast, a name most illustrious in science.” 

The secretary paused, his voice dropped its pretentious 
pitch, he lifted his eyes from the paper, and fixing them on 
Grace, repeated, deliberately— 

“ The bodies who were identified were those of Paul Devarges and 
Grace Conroy.” 

“ Oh, no ! no ! ” said Grace, clasping her handi, wildly; 

it is a mistake ! You are trying to frighten me, a poor, 
helpless, friendless girl ! You are punishing me, gentlemen, 
because you know I have done wrong, because you think I 
have lied ! Oh, have pity, gentlemen. My God—cave me— 
Philip !” 

And with a loud, despairing cry, she rose to her feet, 
caught at the clustering tendrils of her hair, raised her little 
hands, palms upward, high in air, and then sank perpen¬ 
dicularly, as if crushed and beaten flat, a pale and senseless 
heap upon the floor. 


The Footprints are Lost for Ever. 53 

The Commander stooped over the prostrate girl. “ Send 
Manuela here,” he said quickly, waving aside the proffered 
aid of the secretary, with an impatient gesture quite unlike 
his usual gravity, as he lifted the unconscious Grace in his 
arms. 

An Indian waiting-woman hurriedly appeared, and assisted 
the Commander to lay the fainting girl upon a rouch. 

“ Poor child ! ” said the Commander, as Manuela, bend¬ 
ing over Grace, unloosed her garments with sympathetic 
feminine hands. “ Poor little one, and without a father ! ” 

“ Poor woman ! ” said Manuela to herself, half aloud; 
“and without a husband.” 


BOOK IL 


AFTER FIVE 'YEARS. 

CHAPTER I. 

ONE HORSE GULCH, 

It was a season of unexampled prosperity in One Horse 
Gulch. Even the despondent original locator, who, in a fit 
of depressed alcoholism, had given it that infelicitous title, 
would have admitted its injustice, but that he fell a victim 
to the “ craftily qualified ” cups of San Francisco long before 
the Gulch had become prosperous. “Hed Jim stuck to 
straight whisky he might hev got his pile outer the very 
ledge whar his cabin stood,” said a local critic. But Jim 
did not; after taking a thousand dollars from his claim, he 
had flown to San Franciscos, where, gorgeously arrayed, he 
had flitted from champagne to cognac, and from gin to lager 
beer, until he brought his gilded and ephemeral existence 
to a close in the country hospital. 

Howbeit, One Horse Gulch survived not only its godfather, 
but the baleful promise of its unhallowed christening. It 
had its Hotel and its Temperance House, its Express office, 
its saloons, its two squares of low wooden buildings in the 
main street, its clustering nests of cabins on the hill-sides, 
its freshly-hewn stumps, and its lately-cleared lots. Younf 


One Horse Gulch. 


55 

in years, it still had its memories, experiences, and antiquitieSi 
The first tent pitched by Jim White was still standing, the 
bullet holes were yet to be seen in the shutters of the 
Cachucha saloon, where the great fight took place between 
Boston Joe, Harry Worth, and Thompson of Angel’s ; from 
the upper loft of Watson’s “ Emporium ” a beam still pro¬ 
jected from which a year ago a noted citizen had been 
suspended, after an informal inquiry into the ownership 
of some mules that he was found possessed of. Near it was 
a small unpretentious square shed, where the famous caucus 
had met that had selected the delegates who chose the 
celebrated and Honourable Blank to represent California in 
the councils of the nation. 

It was raining. Not in the usual direct, honest, perpendi¬ 
cular fashion of that mountain region, but only suggestively, 
and in a vague, uncertain sort of way, as if it might at any 
time prove to be fog or mist, and any money wagered upon 
it would be hazardous. It was raining as much from below 
as above, and the lower limbs of the loungers who gathered 
around the square box stove that stood in Briggs’s warehouse, 
exhaled a cloud of steam. The loungers in Briggs’s were 
those who from deficiency of taste or the requisite capital 
avoided the gambling and drinking saloons, and quietly 
appropriated biscuits from the convenient barrel of the 
generous Briggs, or filled their pipes from his open tobacco 
canisters, with the general suggestion in their manner that 
their company fully compensated for any waste of his 
material. 

They had been smoking silently—a silence only broken 
by the occasional hiss of expectoration against the hot stove, 
when the door of a back room opened softly, and Gabriel 
Conroy entered. 

** How is he gettin’ on, Gabe ? ” asked one of the loungers. 

“So, so,” said Gabriel. “You’ll want to shift those 


56 Gabriel Conroy. 

bandages again,” he said, turning to Briggs, “afore the 
doctor comes. I’d come back in an hour, but I’ve got to 
drop in and see how Steve’s gettin’ on, and it’s a matter of 
two miles from home.” 

“ But he says he won’t let anybody tech him Dut you,” 
said Mr. Briggs. 

“ I know he says so,” said Gabriel, soothingly; “ but he’ll 
get over that. That’s what Stimson sed when he was took 
worse, but he got over that, and I never got to see him except 
in time to lay him out.” 

The justice of this was admitted even by Briggs, although 
evidently disappointed. Gabriel was walking to the door, 
when another voice from the stove stopped him. 

“ Oh, Gabe ! you mind that emigrant family with the sick 
baby camped down the gulch ! Well, the baby up and died 
last night.” 

“ I want to know,” said Gabriel, with thoughtful gravity. 

“ Yes, and that woman’s in a heap of trouble. Couldn’t 
you kinder drop in in passing and look after things ? ” 

“ I will,” said Gabriel thoughtfully. 

“ I thought you’d like to know it, and I thought she’d like 
me to tell you,” said the speaker, settling himself back again 
over the stove with the air of a man who had just fulfilled, 
at great personal sacrifice and labour, a work of supereroga¬ 
tion. 

“ You’re always thoughtful of other folks, Johnson,” said 
Briggs, admiringly. 

“Well, yes,” said Johnson, with a modest serenity; “1 
allers allow that men in Californy ought to think of others 
besides themselves. A little keer and a little sabe on my 
part, and there’s that family in the gulch made comfortable 
with Gabe around ’em.” 

Meanwhile this homely inciter of the unselfish virtues of 
One Horse Gulch had passed out into the rain and dark- 


One Horse Gulch. 


57 

ness. So conscientiously did he fulfil his various obliga¬ 
tions, that it was nearly one o’clock before he reached his 
rude hut on the hill-side, a rough cabin of pine logs, so 
unpretentious and wild in exterior as to be but a slight im¬ 
provement on nature. The vines clambered unrestrainedly 
over the bark-thatched roof; the birds occupied the crevices 
of the walls, the squirrel ate his acorns on the ridge pole 
without fear and without reproach. 

Softly drawing the wooden peg that served as a bolt, 
Gabriel entered with that noiselessness and caution that 
were habitual to him. Lighting a candle by the embers of 
a dying fire, he carefully looked around him. The cabin 
was divided into two compartments by the aid of a canvas 
stretched between the walls, with a flap for the door-way. 
On a pine table lay several garments apparently belonging 
to a girl of seven or eight—a frock grievously rent and torn, 
a frayed petticoat of white flannel already patched with 
material taken from a red shirt, and a pair of stockings so 
excessively and sincerely darned, as to have lost nearly all 
of their original fabric in repeated bits of relief that covered 
almost the entire structure. Gabriel looked at these articles 
ruefully, and, slowly picking them up, examined each with 
the greatest gravity and concern. Then he took off his 
coat and boots, and having in this way settled himself into 
an easy dishabille, he took a box from the shelf, and pro¬ 
ceeded to lay out thread and needles, when he was inter¬ 
rupted by a child’s voice from behind the canvas screen. 

“Is that you, Gabe?”—“Yes.” 

“ Oh, Gabe, I got tired and went to bed.” 

“ I see you did,” said Gabriel, drily, picking up a needle 
and thread that had apparently been abandoned after a 
slight excursion into the neighbourhood of a rent and left 
hopelessly sticking in the petticoat. 

“ Yes, Gabe; they’re so awfully old !" 


58 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ Old ! ” repeated Gabe, reproachfully. “ Old ! Lettin* 
on a little wear and tear, they’re as good as they ever were. 
That petticoat is stronger,” said Gabriel, holding up the 
garment and eyeing the patches with a slight glow of artistic 
pride—“ stronger. Oily, than the first day you put it on.” 

“Bat that’s five years ago, Gabe.” 

“ Well,” said Gabriel, turning round and addressing him¬ 
self impatiently to the screen, “ wot if it is ? ” 

And I’ve growed.” 

“ Growed ! ” said Gabriel, scornfully. “ And haven’t I let 
out the tucks, and didn’t I put three fingers of the best sack¬ 
ing around the waist? You’ll just ruin me in clothes.” 

Oily laughed from behind the screen. Finding, however, 
no response from the grim worker, presently there appeared 
i\ curly head at the flap, and then a slim little girl, in the 
scantiest of nightgowns, ran, and began to nestle at his side, 
and to endeavour to inwrap herself in his waistcoat. 

“ Oh, go ’way! ” said Gabriel, with a severe voice and 
the most shameless signs of relenting in his face. “Go 
away ! What do you care ? Here I might slave myself to 
death to dress you in silks and satins, and you’d dip into 
the first ditch or waltz through the first underbush that you 
kern across. You haven’t got no sabe in dress. Oily. It 
ain’t ten days ago as I iron-bound and copper-fastened that 
dress, so to speak, and look at it now! Oily, look at it 
now ! ” And he held it up indignantly before the maiden. 

Oily placed the top of her head against the breast of her 
brother as a point d'appui^ and began to revolve around him 
as if she wished to bore a way into his inmost feelings. 

“ Oh, you ain’t mad, Gabe ! ” she said, leaping first over 
one knee and then over the other without lifting her head. 
“ You ain’t mad! ” 

Gabriel did not deign to reply, but continued mending 
the frayed petticoat in dignified silence. 


One Ho7'se Gulch. 


59 

“ Who did you see down town ? ” said Oily, not at all 
rebuffed. 

“No one,” said Gabriel, shortly. 

“ You did ! You smell of linnyments and peppermint,” 
said Oily, with a positive shake of the head. “ You've been 
to Briggs’s and the new family up the gulch.” 

“Yes,” said Gabriel, “that Mexican’s legs is better, but 
the baby’s dead. Jest remind me, to-morrow, to look 
through mother’s things for suthin’ for that poor woman.” 

“ Gabe, do you know what Mrs. Markle says of you ? ” 
said Oily, suddenly raising her head. 

“ No,” replied Gabriel, with an affectation of indifference 
that, like all his affectations, was a perfect failure. 

“ She says,” said Oily, “ that you want to be looked after 
yourself more’n all these people. She says you’re just 
throwing yourself away on other folks. She says I ought 
to have a woman to look after me.” 

Gabriel stopped his work, laid down the petticoat, and 
taking the curly head of Oily between his knees, with one 
hand beneath her chin and the other on the top of her 
head, turned her mischievous face towards his. “ Oily,” 
he said, seriously, “when I got you outer the snow at 
Starvation Camp; when I toted you on my back for miles 
till we got into the valley; when we lay by thar for two 
weeks, and me a felling trees and picking up provisions 
here and thar, in the wood or the river, wharever thar was 
bird or fish, I reckon you got along as well—I won’t say 
better—ez if you had a woman to look arter you. When 
at last we kem here to this camp, and I built this yer house, 
I don’t think any woman could hev done better. If they 
could. I’m wrong, and Mrs. Markle’s right.” 

Oily began to be uncomfortable. Then the quick in¬ 
stincts of her sex came to her relief, and she archly assumed 
the aggressive. 


6o 


Gabriel Conroy, 

I think Mrs. Markle likes you, Gabe.” 

Gabriel looked down at the little figure in alarm. Theie 
are some subjects whereof the youngest of womankind 
has an instinctive knowledge that makes the wisest of us 
tremble. 

“ Go to bed, Oily,” said the cowardly Gabriel. 

But Oily wanted to sit up, so she changed the subject. 

“The Mexican you’re tendin’ isn’t a Mexican, he’s a 
Chileno; Mrs. Markle says so.” 

“ Maybe ; it’s all the same, /call him a Mexican. He 
talks too straight, anyway,” said Gabriel, indifferently. 

“ Did he ask you any more questions about—about old 
times ? ” continued the girl. 

“ Yes ; he wanted to know everything that happened in 
Starvation Camp. He was rek’larly took with poor Gracie; 
asked a heap o’ questions about her—how she acted, and 
seemed to feel as bad as we did about never hearing any¬ 
thing from her. I never met a man, Oily, afore, as seemed 
to take such an interest in other folks’ sorrers as he did. 
You’d have tho’t he’d been one of the party. And he made 
me tell him all about Dr. Devarges.” 

“ And Philip ? ” queried Oily. 

“ No,” said Gabriel, somewhat curtly. 

“ Gabriel,” said Oily, sullenly, “ I wish you didn’t talk so 
to people about those days.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Gabriel, w'onderingly. 

“ Because it ain’t good to talk about. Gabriel dear,” she 
continued, with a slight quivering of the upper lip, “ some¬ 
times I think the people round yer look upon us sorter 
queer. That little boy that came here with the emigrant 
family wouldn’t play with me, and Mrs. Markle’s little girl 
said that we did dreadful things up there in the snow. He 
said I was a cannon-ball.” 

“ A vhat ? ” asked Gabriel. 


One Horse Gulch. 


6i 


“ A cannon-ball! He said that you and I ”- 

“ Hush,” interrupted Gabriel, sternly, as an angry flush 
came into his sunburnt cheek, Ill jest bust that boy if I see 
him round yer agin.” 

“ But, Gabriel,” persisted Oily, “ nobody ”- 

“ Will you go to bed. Oily, and not catch your death yer 
on this cold floor asking ornery and perfectly ridickulus 
questions ? ” said Gabriel, briskly, lifting her to her feet. 
“Thet Markle girl ain’t got no sense anyway—she’s allers 
leading you round in ditches, ruinin’ your best clothes, and 
keepin’ me up half the night mendin’ on ’em.” 

Thus admonished. Oily retreated behind the canvas 
screen, and Gabriel resumed his needle and thread. But 
the thread became entangled, and was often snappishly 
broken, and Gabriel sewed imaginary, vindictive stitches in 
the imaginary calves of an imaginary youthful emigrant, 
until Oily’s voice again broke the silence. 

“ Oh, Gabe ! ” 

Yes,” said Gabriel, putting down his work despairingly. 

Do you think—that Philip—ate Grace?” 

Gabriel rose swiftly, and disappeared behind the screen. 
As he did so, the door softly opened, and a man stepped 
into the cabin. The new-comer cast a rapid glance around 
the dimly-lighted room, and then remained motionless in the 
door-way. From behind the screen came the sound of voices. 
The stranger hesitated, and then uttered a slight cough. 

In an instant Gabriel reappeared. The look of angry 
concern at the intrusion turned to one of absolute stupefac¬ 
tion as he examined the stranger more attentively. The 
new-comer smiled faintly, yet politely, and then, with a 
slight halt in his step, moved towards a chair, into which he 
dropped with a deprecating gesture. 

I shall sit—and you shall pardon n^j. You have sur¬ 
prise ! Yes? Five, six hour ago you leave me very sick 



62 


Gabriel Conroy. 

on a bed—where you are so kind—so good. Yes? Ah? 
You see me here now, and you say crazy ! Mad ! ” 

He raised his right hand with the fingers upward, twirled 
them to signify Gabriel’s supposed idea of a whirling brain, 
and smiled again. 

“Listen. Comes to me an hour ago a message most 
important. Most necessary it is I go to-night—now, to 
Marysville. You see. Yes ? I rise and dress myself. 
Ha ! I have great strength for the effort I am better. 
But I say to myself, ‘ Victor, you shall first pay your 
respects to the good Pike who have been so kind, so good. 
You shall press the hand of the noble grand miner who 
have recover you. Bueno^ I am here ! ” 

He extended a thin, nervous brown hand, and for the 
first time since his entrance concentrated his keen black 
eyes, which had roved over the apartment and taken in its 
minutest details, upon his host. Gabriel, lost in bewilder¬ 
ment, could only gasp—“But you ain’t well enough, you 
know. You can’t walk yet. You’ll kill yourself! ” 

The stranger smiled. 

“ Yes ?—you think—you think ? Look now ! Waits me, 
outside, the horse of the livery-stable man. How many 
miles you think to the stage town ? Fifteen.” (He empha¬ 
sized them with his five uplifted fingers.) “ It is nothing. 
Two hour comes the stage and I am there. Ha ! ” 

Even as he spoke, with a gesture, as if brushing away all 
difficulties, his keen eyes were resting upon a little shell 
above the chimney, whereon stood an old-fashioned daguer¬ 
reotype case open. He rose, and, with a slight halting step 
and an expression of pain, limped across the room to the 
shelf, and took up the daguerreotype. 

“ What have we ? ” he asked. 

“ It is Gracie,” said Gabriel, brightening up. “ Taken 
the day we started from St. Jo.” 


One Horse Gulch, 


63 


“ How long ? ” 

“ Six years ago. She was fourteen then,” said Gabriel, 
taking the case in his hand and brushing the glass fondly 
with his palm. “ Thar warn’t no puttier gal in all Missouri,” 
he added, with fraternal pride, looking down upon the 
picture with moistened eyes. “Eh—what did you say?” 

The stranger had uttered a few words hastily in a foreign 
tongue. But they were apparently complimentary, for when 
Gabriel looked up at him with an inquiring glance, he was 
smiling and saying, “ Beautiful! Angelic ! Very pretty ! ” 
with eyes still fixed upon the picture. “ And it is like—ah, 
I see the brother’s face, too,” he said, gravely, comparing 
Gabriel’s face with the picture. Gabriel looked pleased. 
Any nature less simple than his would have detected the 
polite fiction. In the square, honest face of the brother 
there was not the faintest suggestion of the delicate, girlish, 
poetical oval before him. 

It is precious,” said the stranger: “ and it is all, ha ? ” 

“All?” echoed Gabriel, inquiringly. 

“ You have nothing more ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ A line of her writing, a letter, her private papers would 
be a treasure, eh ? ” 

“ She left nothing,” said Gabriel, simply, “ but her clothes. 
You know she put on a boy’s suit—Johnny’s clothes— 
when she left. Thet’s how it alius puzzles me thet they 
knew who she was, when they came across the poor child 
dead.” 

The stranger did not speak, and Gabriel went on— 

“ It was nigh on a month afore I got back. When I did, 
the snow was gone, and there warn’t no track or trace of 
anybody. Then I heerd the story I told ye—thet a relief 
party had found ’em all dead—and thet among the dead 
was Grace. How that poor child ever got back thar alone 


64 Gabriel Conroy, 

(for thar warn’t no trace or mention of the man she went 
away with) is what gets me. And that there’s my trouble, 
Mr. Ramirez ! To think of thet pooty darlin’ climbing 
back to the old nest, and finding no one thar ! To think 
of her coming back, as she allowed, to Oily and me, and 
findin’ all her own blood gone, is suthin’ thet, at times, 
drives me almost mad. She didn’t die of starvation; she 
didn’t die of cold. Her heart was broke, Mr. Ramirez; 
her little heart was broke ! ” 

The stranger looked at him curiously, but did not speak. 
After a moment’s pause, he lifted his bowed head from his 
hands, wiped his eyes with Oily’s flannel petticoat, and 
went on— 

“ For more than a year I tried to get sight o’ that report. 
Then I tried to find the Mission or the Presidio that the 
relief party started from, and may be see some of that party. 
But then kem the gold excitement, and the Americans took 
possession of the Missions and Presidios, and when I got to 
San—San—San-” 

“ Geronimo,” interrupted Ramirez, hastily. 

“ Did I tell ? ” asked Gabriel, simply; “ I don’t remem¬ 
ber that.” 

Ramirez showed all his teeth in quick assent, and 
motioned him with his finger to go on. 

“ When 1 got to San Geronimo, there was nobody, and 
no records left. Then I put a notiss in the San Francisco 
paper for Philip Ashley—that was the man as helped her 
away—to communicate with me. But thar weren’t no 
answer.” 

Ramirez rose. 

“ You are not rich, friend Gabriel ? ” 

“No,” said Gabriel. 

“ But you expect—ah—you expect ? ” 

^ Well, I reckon some day to make a strike like the rest 



65 


Madame Devarges, 

“ Anywhere, my friend ? ” 

“ Anywhere,” repeated Gabriel, smiling. 

“ Adios^' said the stranger, going to the door. 

*^Adws” repeated Gabriel. “Must you go to-night? 
What’s your hurry ? You’re sure you feel better now ? ” 
“Better?” answered Ramirez, with a singular smile. 
“ Better ! Look, I am so strong ! ” 

He stretched out his arms, and expanded his chest, and 
walked erect to the door. 

“You have cured my rheumatism, friend Gabriel. 
Good night.” 

The door closed behind him. In another moment he 
was in the saddle, and speeding so swiftly that, in spite of mud 
and darkness, in two hours he had reached the mining town 
where the Wingdam and Sacramento stage-coach changed 
horses. The next morning, while Oily and Gabriel were 
eating breakfast, Mr. Victor Ramirez stepped briskly from 
the stage that drew up at Marysville Hotel, and entered the 
hotel office. As the clerk looked up inquiringly, Mr. 
Ramirez handed him a card— 

“ Send that, if you please, to Miss Grace Conroy.” 


CHAPTER II. 

MADAME DEVARGES. 

Mr. Ramirez followed the ‘porter upstairs, and along a 
narrow passage, until he reached a larger hall. Here the 
porter indicated that he should wait until he returned, and 
then disappeared down the darkened vista of another passage. 
Mr. Ramirez had ample time to observe the freshness of the 
boarded partitions and scant details of the interior of the 
International Hotel; he even had time to attempt to grapple 
ihe foreign mystery of the notice conspicuously on the wall, 

VOL. IV. E 


66 Gabriel Conroy. 

“Gentlemenaie requested not to sleep on the stairs,”before 
his companion reappeared. Beckoning to Mr. Ramirez, 
with an air of surly suspicion, the porter led him along the 
darkened passage until he paused before a door at its farther 
extremity and knocked gently. Slight as was the knock, it 
had the mysterious effect of causing all the other doors 
along the passage to open, and a masculine head to appear 
at each opening. Mr. Ramirez’s brow darkened quickly. 
He was sufficiently conversant with the conditions of that 
early civilization to know that, as a visitor to a lady, he was 
the object of every man’s curious envy and aggressive sus¬ 
picion. There was the sound of light footsteps within, and 
the door opened. The porter lingered long enough to be 
able to decide upon the character and propriety of the 
greeting, and then sullenly retired. The door closed, and 
Mr. Ramirez found himself face to face with the occupant of 
the room. She was a small, slight blonde, who, when the 
smile that had lit her mouth and eyes as she opened the 
door faded suddenly as she closed it, might have passed for 
a plain, indistinctive woman. But for a certain dangerous 
submissiveness of manner—which I here humbly submit is 
always to be feared in an all-powerful sex—and an address 
that was rather more deprecatory than occasion called for, 
she would hardly have awakened the admiration of our sex 
or the fears of her own. 

As Ramirez advanced, with both hands impulsively ex¬ 
tended, she drew back shyly, and, pointing to the ceiling 
and walls, said quietly, “ Cloth and paper ! ” 

Ramirez’s dark face grew darker. There was a long pause. 
Suddenly the lady lightened the shadow that seemed to have 
fallen upon their interview with both her teeth and eyes, and, 
pointing to a chair, said— 

“ Sit down, Victor, and tell me why you have returned 
soon.” 


Madame Devarges. 67 

Victor sat sullenly down. The lady looked all deprecation 
find submissiveness, but said nothing. 

Ramirez would, in his sullenness, have imitated her, but 
his natural impulsiveness was too strong, and he broke out— 

“ Look ! From the book of the hotel it is better you 
should erase the name of Grace Conroy, and put down 
your own !” 

“ And why, Victor ? ” 

“She asks why,” said Victor, appealing to the ceiling. 
“ My God ! Because one hundred miles from here live the 
brother and sister of Grace Conroy. I have seen him ! ” 

“Well.” 

“ Well,” echoed Victor. “ Is it well ? Listen. You shall 
hear if it is well.” 

He drew his chair beside her, and went on in a low, 
earnest voice— 

‘‘ I have at last located the mine. I followed the deseno — 
the description of the spot, and all its surroundings—which 
was in the paper that 1—I—found. Good ! It is true !— 
ah, you begin to be interested !—it is true, all true of the 
locality. See^^ 'Of the spot I do not know. Of the mine 
it has not yet be^ n discovered ! 

“ It is called ‘ One Horse Gulch ; ’ why—who knows ? 
It is a rich mining camp. Ail around are valuable claims ; 
but the mine on the top of the little hill is unknown, un¬ 
claimed ! For why? You understand, it promises not as 
much as the other claims on the surface. It is the same— 
all as described here.” 

He took from his pocket an envelope, and drew out a 
folded paper (the papers given to Grace Conroy by Dr. 
Devarges), and pointed to the map. 

“ The description here leads me to the head waters of the 
American River. I followed the ’•ange of foot-hills, for I 
know every foot, every step, and ? came one day last week 


68 Gabriel Conroy, 

to * One Horse Gulch.* See, it is the gulch described here 
—all the same.” 

He held the paper before her, and her thin, long fingers 
closed like a bird’s claw over its corners. 

“ It is necessary I should stay there four or five days to 
inquire. And yet how ? I am a stranger, a foreigner; the 
miners have suspicion of all such, and to me they do not 
talk easily. But I hear of one Gabriel Conroy, a good man, 
very kind with the sick. Good ! I have sickness—very 
sudden, very strong! My rheumatism takes me hera” 
He pointed to his knee. “ I am helpless as a child. I 
have to be taken care of at the house of Mr. Briggs. Comes 
to me here Gabriel Conroy, sits by me, talks to me, tells me 
everything. He brings to me his little sister. I go to his 
cabin on the hill. I see the picture of his sister. Good 
You understand ? It is ail over 1 ” 

“Why?” 

“ Eh ? She asks why, this woman,” said Victor, appealing 
to the ceiling. “ Is it more you ask ? Then listen. The 
house of Gabriel Conroy is upon the land, the very land, 
you understand ? of the grant made by the Governor to Dr. 
Devarges. He is this Gabriel, look ! he is in possession ! ” 
“ How ? Does he know of the mine ? ” 

“ No ! It is accident—what you call Fate ! ” 

She walked to the window, and stood for a few moments 
locking out upon the falling rain. The face that looked out 
ras so old, so haggard, so hard and set in its outlines, that 
one of the loungers on the side-walk, glancing at the window 
to catch a glimpse of the pretty French stranger, did not 
recognise her. Possibly the incident recalled her to herself, 
for she presently turned with a smile of ineffable sweetness, 
and returning to the side of Ramirez, said, in the gentlest 
of voices,“Then you abandon me? ” 

Victor did not dare to meet her eyes. He looked 


Madame Dev urges. 69 

itraight before him, shrugged his shoulders, and said—** It 
is Fate ! ” 

She clasped her thin fingers lightly before her, and, stand¬ 
ing in front of her companion, so as to be level with his 
eyes, said—“ You have a good memory, Victor. 

He did not reply. 

“ Let me assist it. It is a year ago that 1 received a letter 
in Berlin, signed by a Mr. Peter Dumphy, of San Francisco, 
saying that he was in possession of important papers re¬ 
garding property of my late husband, Dr. Paul Devarges, 
and asking me to communicate with him. I did not answer 
his letter; I came. It is not my way to deliberate or hesi¬ 
tate—perhaps a wise man would. I am only a poor, weak 
woman, so I came. I know it was all wrong. You sharp, 
bold, cautious men would have written first. Well, I 
came! ” 

Victor winced slightly, but did not speak. 

“ I saw Mr. Dumphy in San Francisco. He showed me 
some papers that he said he had found in a place of deposit 
which Dr. Devarges had evidently wished preserved. One 
was a record of a Spanish grant, others indicated some 
valuable discoveries. He referred me to the Mission and 
Presidio of San Geronimo that had sent out the relief party 
for further information. He was a trader — a mere man of 
business—it was a question of money with him; agreed 
to assist me for a perce7itage I Is it not so ? ” 

Victor raised his dark eyes to hers, and nodded 

“ I came to the Mission. I sa w you —the Sec*-etary of 
the former Comandante—the only one left who remembered 
the expedition, and the custodian of the Presidio records. 
You showed me the only copy of the report; you^ too, would 
have been cold and business-like, until I told you my story. 
You seemed interested. \ou told me about the young 
girl, this mysterious Grace Conroy, whose name appeared 


70 Gabriel Conroy. 

among the dead, who you said you thought was an im« 
postor ! Did you not ? ” 

Victor nodded. 

“ You told me of her agony on reading the report ! Of 
her fainting, of the discovery of her condition by the 
women, of the Comandante’s pity, of her mysterious disajv 
pearance, of the Comandante’s reticence, of your own 
suspicions of the birth of a child ! Did you not, Victor?” 

He endeavoured to take her hand. Without altering 
her gentle manner, she withdrew her hand quietly, and 
went on— 

“ And then you told me of your finding that paper on 
the floor where they loosened her dress—the paper you 
now hold in your hand. You told me of your reasons for 
concealing and withholding it. And then, Victor, you 
proposed to me a plan to secure my own again—to person¬ 
ate this girl—to out-imposture this imposture. You did 
not ask me for a percentage ! You did not seek to rrjake 
money out of my needs; you asked only for my love! 
Well, well! perhaps I was a fool, a weak woman. It was 
a tempting bribe; possibly I listened more to the prompt¬ 
ings of my heart than my interest. I promised you my 
hand and my fortune when we succeeded. You come to 
me now, and ask to be relieved of that obligation. No! 
no ! you have said enough.” 

The now frightened man had seized her by the hand, and 
thrown himself on his knees before her in passionate con¬ 
trition ; but, with a powerful effort, she had wrested herself 
free. 

“ No, no! ” she continued, in the same deprecatory 
voice. “ Go to this brother, whom the chief end of youi 
labours seems to have been to discover. Go to him now. 
Restore to him the paper you hold in your hand. Say tha' 
you stole it from his sister, wl om you suspected to have 


Madame Devarges. 71 

been an impostor, and that you knew to be the mother ol 
an illegitimate child ! Say that in doing this, you took the 
last hope from the wronged and cast-off wife who came 
thousands of miles to claim something from the man who 
should have supported her. Say this, and that brother, if 
he is the good and kind man you represent him to be, he 
will rise up and bless you ! You have only to tell him 
further, that this paper cannot be of any use to him, as 
this property legally belongs to his sister’s child, if living. 
You have only to hand him the report which declares both 
of his sisters to be dead, and leaves his own identity in 
doubt, to show him what a blessing has fallen upon him.” 

“Forgive me,” gasped Victor, with a painful blending of 
shame and awesome admiration of the woman before him ; 
“ forgive me, Julie ! I am a coward ! a slave ! an ingrate ! 
I will do anything, Julie; anything you say.” 

Madame Devarges was too sagacious to press her victory 
further; perhaps she was too cautious to exasperate the 
already incautiously demonstrative man before her. She 
said “ Hush,” and permitted him at the same time, as if 
unconsciously, to draw her beside him. 

“ Listen, Victor. What have you to fear from this man ? ” 
she asked, after a pause. “ What would his evidence weigh 
against me, when he is in unlawful possession of my property, 
my legally declared property, if I choose to deny his relation¬ 
ship ? Who will identify him as Gabriel Conroy, when his 
only surviving relative dare not come forward to recognise 
him; when, if she did, you could swear that she came to 
you under another name ? What would this brother’s self- 
interested evidence amount to opposed to yours, that I was 
die Grace Conroy who came to the Mission, to the proof of 
my identity offered by one of the survivors, Peter Dumphy ?” 

“ Dumphy ! ” echoed Ramirez, in amazement. 

*• Yes, Dumphy ! ” repeated Madame Devarges. “ When 


72 Gabriel Conroy. 

he found that, as the divorced wife of Dr. Devarges, I could 
make no legal claim, and I told him of your plan, he offered 
himself as witness of my identity. Ah, Victor ! 1 have not 
been idle while you have found only obstacles.” 

“ Forgive me ! ” He caught and kissed her hands passion¬ 
ately. I fly now. Good-bye.” 

Where are you going ? ” she asked, rising. 

“ To ‘ One Horse Gulch,’ ” he answered. 

“ No ! Sit down. Listen. You must go to San Francisco, 
and inform Dumphy of your discovery. It will be necessary, 
perhaps, to have a lawyer; but we must first see how strong 
we stand. You must find out the whereabouts of this girl 
Grace, at once. Go to San Francisco, see Dumphy, and 
return to me here ! ” 

“ But you are alone here, and unprotected. These men ! ” 

The quick suspicions of a jealous nature flashed in his 
eyes. 

“ Believe me, they are less dangerous to our plans than 
women ! Do you not trust me, Victor ? ” she said, with a 
dazzling smile. 

He would have thrown himself at her feet, but she 
restrained him with an arch look at the wall, and a pre¬ 
cautionary uplifted finger. 

“ Good ; go now. Stay. This Gabriel—is he married ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

The door closed upon his dark, eager face, and he was 
gone. A moment later there was a sharp ringing of the bell 
of No. 92 , the next room to that occupied by Mme. Devarges. 

The truculent porter knocked at the door, and entered 
this room respectfully. There was no suspicion attached 
to the character of its occupant. He was well known as Mr. 
Jack Hamlin a gambler. 

“ Why the devil did you keep me waiting ? ” said Jack 


Madame Devarges, 73 

reaching from the bed, and wrathfully clutching his boot- 
jack. 

The man murmured some apologjr 

“ Bring me some hot water.” 

The porter was about to hurriedly withdraw, when Jack 
stopped him with an oath. 

‘‘ You’ve been long enough coming without shooting off 
like that. Who was that man that just left the next room ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir.” 

“ Find out, and let me know.” 

He flung a gold piece at the man, beat up his pillow, and 
turned his face to the wall. The porter still lingered, and 
Jack faced sharply round. 

“ Not gone yet ? What the devil - 

“Beg your pardon, sir; do you know anything about 
her ? ” 

“ No,” said Jack, raising himself on his elbow; “ but if 
I catch you hanging round that door, as you were five 
minutes ago. I’ll ”- 

Here Mr. Hamlin dropped his voice, and intimated that 
he would forcibly dislodge certain vital and necessary organs 
from the porter’s body. 

“ Go.” 

After the door closed again, Mr. Hamlin lay silent for 
an hour. At the end of that time he got up and began tc 
dress himself slowly, singing softly to himself the while, as 
was his invariable custom, in that sweet tenor for which he 
was famous. When he had thus warbled through his toilet, 
replacing a small ivory-handled pistol in his waistcoat-pocket 
to one of his most heart-breaking notes, he put his hat on his 
handsome head, perhaps a trifle more on one side than 
usual, and stepped into the hall. As he sharply shut his 
door and locked it, the slight concussion of the thin parti¬ 
tions caused the door of his fair neighbour’s room to start 



74 Gabriel Conroy, 

ajar, and Mr. Hamlin, looking up mechanically, saw the 
lady standing by the bureau, with her handkerchief to her 
eyes. Mr. Hamlin instantly stopped his warbling, and 
walked gravely downstairs. At the foot of the steps he met 
the porter. The man touched his hat. 

“ He doesn’t belong here, sir.” 

“ Who doesn’t belong here ? ” asked Mr. Hamlin, coldly, 

“ That man.” 

“ What man ? ” 

“ The man you asked about.” 

Mr. Hamlin quietly took out a cigar, lit it, and after one 
or two puffs, looked fixedly in the man’s eyes, and said— 

“ I haven’t asked you about any man.” 

“ I thought, sir ”- 

“You shouldn’t begin to drink so early in the day, 
Michael,” said Mr. Hamlin, quietly, without withdrawing his 
black eyes from the man’s face. “You can’t stand it on an 
empty stomach. Take my advice and wait till after dinner.” 


CHAPTER III, 

MRS. MARKLE. 

Olly’s allusion to Mrs. Markleand her criticism had recurred 
to Gabriel more or less uneasily through the night, and as 
he rose betimes the next morning and stood by the table on 
which lay his handiwork, a grim doubt of his proficiency in 
that branch of domestic economy began to oppress him. 

“ Like as not I ain’t doin’ my duty to that child,” he said 
softly to himself, as he picked up the garments one by one, 
and deposited them beside the bedside of the still sleeping 
Oily “Them clothes are—leavin’ out the strength and 
sayin’ nothin’ o’ durability as material—a trifle old-fashioned 
and onbecomin’. Not as you requires anything o’ the 



Mrs. Markle. 


75 

kind, bless your pooty face,” he said, apostrophising the 
dewy curls and slumber-flushed cheek of the unconscious 
child; “ but mebbe it does sorter provoke remarks from 
the other children. And the settlement’s gettin’ crowded. 

Three new families in six months is rather too—too-” 

considered Gabriel, hesitating for a word; “rather too 
popylating ! And Mrs. Markle ”—Gabriel flushed even in 
the stillness and solitude of his own cabin—“ to think of 
that little gal, not nine years old, speaking o’ that widder in 
that way. It beats everything. And to think I’ve kept clar 
of that sort o’ thing jest on Oily’s account, jest that she 
shouldn’t have any woman around to boss her.” 

Nevertheless, when he and Oily sat down to their frugal 
breakfast, he was uneasily conscious of several oddities of 
her dress, not before noticeable, and even some peculiarities 
of manner. 

“ Ez a gineral thing. Oily,” he pointed out with cautious 
generalisation, “ ez a gineral thing, in perlite society, young 
gals don’t sit down a-straddle of their chairs, and don’t 
reach down every five minnits to heave away at their boot¬ 
straps.” 

“ As a general thing, Gabe, girls don’t wear boots,” said 
Oily, leaning forward to dip her bread in the frying-pan. 

Artfully evading the question whether high india-rubber 
boots were an indispensable feature of a girl’s clothing, 
Gabriel continued with easy indifference—-* I think I’ll 
drop in on Mrs. Markle on my way co the Gulch this 
morning.” 

He glanced under his eyelids at as much of his sister’s 
face as was visible behind the slice of bread she was con* 
Burning. 

“ Take me with you, Gabe ? ” 

“No,” said Gabriel, “you must stay here and do up the 
house; and mind you keep out o’ the woods until your 



70 Gabriel Conroy, 

work’s done. Besides,” he added, loftily, “ I’ve got some 
business with Mrs. Markle.” 

“ Oh, Gabe ! ” said Oily, shining all over her face with 
gravy and archness. 

“ I’d like to know what’s the matter with you. Oily,” said 
Gabriel, with dignified composure. 

“ Ain’t you ashamed, Gabe ? ” 

Gabriel did not stop to reply, but rose, gathered up his 
tools, and took his hat from the corner. He walked to the 
door, but suddenly turned and came back to Oily. 

“ Oily,” he said, taking her face in both hands, after his 
old fashion, “ ef anything at any time should happen to me, 
I want ye to think, my darling, ez I always did my best for 
you. Oily, for you. Wotever I did was always for the best.” 

Oily thought instantly of the river. 

“ You ain’t goin’ into deep water to-day, Gabe, are you?” 
she asked, with a slight premonitory quiver of her short 
upper lip. 

‘‘ Booty deep for me. Oily; but,” he added, hastily, with a 
glance at her alarmed face, “ don’t you mind. I’ll come out 
all safe. Good-bye.” He kissed her tenderly. She ran 
her fingers through his sandy curls, deftly smoothed his 
beard, and reknotted his neckerchief. 

“ You oughter hev put on your other shirt, Gabe ; that 
ain’t clean ; and you a-goin’ to Mrs. Markle’s ! Let me get 
your straw hat, Gabe. Wait.” She ran in behind the 
screen, but when she returned he was gone. 

It had been raining the night before, but on the earth 
beneath there was a dewy freshness, and in the sky above 
the beauty of cloud scenery—a beauty rare to California 
except during the rainy season. Gabriel, although not 
usually affected by meteorological influences, nor peculiarly 
susceptible to the charms of Nature, felt that the morning 
was a fine one, and was for that reason, I imagine, more 


Mrs. Markle. 


77 

than usually accessible to the blandishments of the fair. 
From admiring a tree, a flower, or a gleam of sunshine, to 
the entertainment of a dangerous sentimentalism in regard 
to the other sex, is, I fear, but a facile step to some natures, 
whose only safety is in continuous practicality. Wherefore, 
Gabriel, as he approached the cottage of Mrs. Markle, was 
induced to look from Nature up to—Nature’s goddess— 
Mrs. Markle, as her strong bright face appeared above the 
dishes she was washing by the kitchen window. And here 
occurred one of those feminine inconsistencies that are 
charming to the average man, but are occasionally 
inefficient with an exceptional character. Mrs. Markle, 
who had always been exceedingly genial, gentle, and natural 
with Gabriel during his shyness, seeing him coming with 
a certain fell intent of cheerfulness in his face, instantly 
assumed an aggressive manner, which, for the sake of its 
probable warning to the rest of her sex, I venture to 
transcribe. 

“ Ef you want to see me, Gabriel Conroy,” said Mrs. 
Markle, stopping to wipe the suds from her brown but 
handsomely shaped arms, “you must come up to the sink, 
for I can’t leave the dishes. Joe Markle always used to say 
to me, ‘Sue, when you’ve got work to do, you don’t let 
your mind wander round much on anything else.’ Sal, 
bring a cheer here for Gabriel—he don’t come often enough 
to stand up for a change. We’re hard-working women, you 
and me, Sal, and we don’t get time to be sick—and sick 
folks is about the only kind as Mr. Conroy cares to see.” 

Thoroughly astonished as Gabriel was with this sarcastic 
reception, there was still a certain relief that it brought to him. 
“Oily was wrong,” he said to himself; “that woman only 
thinks of washin’ dishes and lookin’ after her boarders. Ef 
ghe was alius like this—and would leave a man alone, never 
foolin’ around him, but kinder standin’ off and ’tendin’ strictly 


78 Gabriel Conroy. 

to the business of the house, why, it wouldn’t be such a bad 
thing to marry her. But like as not she’d change—you 
can’t trust them critters. Howsomever I can set Oily’s mind 
at rest.” 

Happily unconscious of the heresies that were being 
entertained by the silent man before her, Mrs. Markle 
briskly continued her washing and her monologue, occasion¬ 
ally sprinkling Gabriel with the overflow of each. 

“ When I say hard-workin’ women, Sal,” said Mrs. Markle, 
still addressing a gaunt female companion, whose sole func¬ 
tions were confined to chuckling at Gabriel over the dishes 
she was wiping, and standing with her back to her mistress 
—‘‘ when I say hard-workin’ women, Sal, I don’t forget ez 
there are men ez is capable of doin’ all that, and more— 
men ez looks down on you and me.” Here Mistress Markle 
broke a plate, and then, after a pause, sighed, faced around 
with a little colour in her cheek and a sharp snap in her 
black eyes, and declared that she was “ that narvous ” this 
morning that she couldn’t go on. 

There was an embarrassing silence. Luckily for Gabriel, 
at this moment the gaunt Sal picked up the dropped thread 
of conversation, and with her back to her mistress, and pro¬ 
foundly ignoring his presence, addressed herself to the 
wall. 

“ Narvous you well may be, Susan, and you slavin’ for 
forty boarders, with transitory meals for travellers, and 
nobody to help you. If you was flat on your back with 
rheumatiz, ez you well might be, perhaps you might get a 
hand. A death in the family might be of sarvice to you in 
callin’ round you friends az couldn’t otherwise leave their 
business. That cough that little Manty had on to her for 
the last five weeks would frighten some mothers into a 
narvous consumption.” 

Gabriel at this moment had a vivid and guilty recollection 


Mrs, Markle, 


79 

of noticing Manty Markle wading in the ditch below the 
house as he entered, and of having observed her with the 
interest of possible paternal relationship. That relationship 
seemed so preposterous and indefensible on all moral grounds, 
now that he began to feel himself in the light of an impostor, 
and was proportionally embarrassed. His confusion was 
shown in a manner peculiarly characteristic of himself 
Drawing a small pocket comb from his pocket, he began 
combing out his sandy curls, softly, with a perplexed smile 
on his face. The widow had often noticed this action, 
divined its cause, and accepted it as a tribute. She began 
to relent. By some occult feminine sympathy, this relenting 
was indicated by the other woman. 

“You're out of sorts this morning, Susan, 'nd if ye'll take 
a fool's advice, ye’ll jest quit work, and make yourself com¬ 
fortable in the settin'-room, and kinder pass the time o' day 
with Gabriel; onless he's after waitin' to pick up some hints 
about housework. I never could work with a man around. 
I’ll do up the dishes ef you’ll excuse my kempany, which 
two is and three's none. Yer give me this apron. You 
don't hev time, I declare. Sue, to tidy yourself up. And 
your hair’s cornin' down.” 

The gaunt Sal, having recognised Gabriel’s presence to 
this extent, attempted to reorganise Mrs. Markle’s coiffure, 
but was playfully put aside by that lady, with the remark, 
.hat “ she had too much to do to think of them things.” 

“ And it’s only a mop, anyway,” she added, with severe 
self-depreciation ; “ let it alone, will you, Sal! Thar! I 
told you; now you’ve done it.” And she had. The in¬ 
famous Sal, by some deft trick well known to her deceitful 
sex, had suddenly tumbled the whole wealth of Mrs. Markle’s 
black mane over her plump shoulders. Mrs. Markle, with 
a laugh, would have flown to the chaste recesses of the 
■ittmg-room; but Sal, like a true artist, restrained her, until 


8 o Gabriel Conroy. 

the full effect of this poetic picture should be impressed 
upon the unsuspecting Gabriel’s memory. 

“ Mop, indeed ! ” said Sal. “ It’s well that many folks is 
of many minds, and self-praise is open disgrace; but when, 
a man like Lawyer Maxwell sez to me only yesterday sittin’ 
at this very table, lookin’ kinder up at you. Sue, as you was 
passin’ soup, unconscious like, and one o’ ’em braids droppin’ 
down, and jest missin’ the plate, when Lawyer Maxwell 
sez to me, ‘ Sal, thar’s many a fine lady in Frisco ez would 
give her pile to have Susan Markle’s hair ’ ”- 

But here Sal was interrupted by the bashful escape of 
Mrs. Markle to the sitting-room. “Ye don’t know whether 
Lawyer Maxwell has any bisness up this way, Gabriel, do 
ye ? ” said Sal, resuming her work. 

“No,” said the unconscious Gabriel, happily as oblivious 
of the artful drift of the question as he had been of the 
dangerous suggestiveness of Mrs. Markle’s hair. 

“ Because he does kinder pass here more frequent than he 
used, and hez taken ez menny ez five meals in one day. I 
declare, I thought that was him when you kem just now ! 
I don’t think thet Sue notices it, not keering much for that 
kind of build in a man,” continued Sal, glancing at Gabriel’s 
passively powerful shoulders, and the placid strength of his 
long limbs. “ How do you think Sue’s looking now—ez a 
friend interested in the family—how does she look to you?” 

Gabriel hastened to assure Sal of the healthful appear¬ 
ance of Mrs. Markle, but only extracted from his gaunt 
companion a long sigh and a shake of the head. 

“ It’s deceitful, Gabriel! No one knows what that poor 
critter goes through. Her mind’s kinder onsettled o’ late, 
and: in that onsettled state, she breaks things. You see her 
break that plate just now ? Well, perhaps I oughtn’t to say 
it—but you being a friend and in confidence, for she’d kil, 
me, being a proud kind o’ nater, suthin’ like my own, and 



Mrs, Markle. 


8i 


it may not amount to nothin’ arter all—but I kin always tell 
when you’ve been around by the breakages. You was here, 
let’s see, the week afore last, and there wasn’t cups enough 
left to go round that night for supper ! ” 

“ Maybe it’s chills,” said the horror-stricken Gabriel, his 
worst fears realised, rising from his chair ; “ I’ve got some 
Indian cholagogue over to the cabin, and I’ll jest run over 
and get it, or send it back.” Intent only upon retreat, he 
would have shamelessly flown ; but Sal intercepted him with 
a face of mysterious awe. 

“ Ef she should kem in here and find you gone, Gabriel, 
in that weak state of hers—narvous you may call it, but so 
it is—I wouldn’t be answerable for that poor critter’s life. 
Ef she should think you’d gone, arter what has happened, 
arter what has passed between you and her to-day, it would 
jest kill her.” 

“ But what has passed ? ” said Gabriel, in vague alarm. 

“ It ain’t for me,” said the gaunt Sal, loftily,_‘‘to pass my 
opinion on other folks’ conduct, or to let on what this means, 
or what thet means, or to give my say about people callin’ on 
other people, and broken crockery, hair combs ”—Gabriel 
winced—“ and people ez is too nice and keerful to open 
their mouths afore folks ! It ain’t for me to get up and say 
that, when a woman is ever so little out of sorts, and a man 
is so far gone ez he allows to rush off like a madman to get 
her medicines, what ez or what ezn’t in it. I keep my own 
counsel, and thet’s my way. Many’s the time Sue hez said 
to me : ‘ Ef thar ever was a woman ez knowed how to lock 
herself up and throw away the key, it’s you, Sal.’ And 
there you are, ma’am, and it’s high time ez plain help like 
me stopped talkin’ whiie ladies and gentlemen exchanged 
the time o’ day.” 

It is hardly necessary to say that the latter part of this 
speech was addressed to the widow who at that moment 

VOL. IV. F 


8 2 Gabriel Conroy. 

appeared at the door of the sitting-room, in a new calico 
gown that showed her plump figure to advantage, or that 
the gaunt Sal intended to indicate the serious character of 
the performance by a show of increased respect to the 
actors. 

“ I hope I ain’t intrudin’ on your conversation,” said the 
widow, archly, stopping, with a show of consideration, on 
the threshold. “ Ef you and Sal ain’t done private matters 
yet—I’ll wait.” 

“ I don’t think ez Gabriel hez anything more to say 
thet you shouldn’t hear, Mrs. Markle,” said Sal, strongly 
implying a recent confidential disclosure from Gabriel, 
which delicacy to Gabriel alone prevented her from giving. 
“ But it ain’t for me to hear confidence in matters of the 
feelin’s.” 

It is difficult to say whether Mrs. Markle’s archness, or 
Sal’s woeful perspicuity, was most alarming to Gabriel. He 
rose; he would have flown, even with the terrible con¬ 
tingency of Mrs. Markle’s hysterics before his eyes; he would 
have faced even that forcible opposition from Sal of which he 
fully believed her capable, but that a dreadful suspicion that 
he was already hopelessly involved, that something would 
yet transpire that would enable him to explain himself, and 
perhaps an awful fascination of his very danger, turned his 
irresolute feet into Mrs. Markle’s sitting-room. Mrs. Markle 
offered him a chair; he sank helplessly into it, while, from 
the other room, Sal, violently clattering her dishes, burst 
into shrill song, so palpably done for the purpose of assuring 
the bashful couple of her inability to overhear their tender 
confidences, that Gabriel coloured to the roots of his hair. 

That evening Gabriel returned from his work in the 
gulch more than usually grave. To Oily’s inquiries 
he replied shortly and evasively. It was not, however 
Gabriel’s custom to remain uncommunicative on even 


Afrs. Markle, 


disagreeable topics, and Oliy bided her time. It came 
after their frugal supper was over—which, unlike the 
morning meal, passed without any fastidious criticism on 
Gabriel’s part—and Oily had drawn a small box, her 
favourite seat, between her brother’s legs, and rested the 
back of her head comfortably against his waistcoat. When 
Gabriel had lighted his pipe at the solitary candle, he gave 
one or two preliminary puffs, and then, taking his pipe 
from his mouth, said gently, ‘‘ Oily, it can’t be done.” 

“ What can’t be done, Gabe ? ” queried the artful Oily, 
with a swift preconception of the answer, expanding her 
little mouth into a thoughtful smile. 

Thet thing.”—“ What thing, Gabe ? ” 

“ This yer marryin’ o’ Mrs. Markle,” said Gabriel, with 
an assumption of easy, business-like indifference. 

** Why ? ” asked Oily. 

“ She wouldn’t hev me.” 

What ? ” said Oily, facing swiftly round. 

Gabriel evaded his sister’s eyes, and looking in the fire, 
repeated slowly, but with great firmness— 

‘‘No ; not fur—fur—fur a gift! ” 

“ She’s a mean, stuck-up, horrid old thing ! ” said Oily, 
Sercely. “ I’d jest like to—why, there ain’t a man az kin 
-ompare with you, Gabe ! Like her impudence ! ” 

Gabriel waved his pipe in the air deprecatingly, yet 
with such an evident air of cheerful resignation, that Oily 
faced upon him again suspiciously, and asked—“What 
did she say ? ” 

“ She said,” replied Gabe, slowly, “ thet her heart was 
given to another. I think she struck into poetry, and 
Raid— 

‘ My heaif it is another’s, 

And it never can be thine. 

*' Thet is, I think so. I disremember her special remark, 


84 Gabriel Conroy, 

Oily \ but you know women allers spout poetry at sech 
times. Ennyhow, that’s about the way the thing panned 
out.” 

“ Who was it ? ” said Oily, suddenly. 

“She didn’t let on who,” said Gabriel, uneasily. “I 
didn’t think it the square thing to inquire.” 

“Well,” said Oily. 

Gabriel looked down still more embarrassed, and shifted 
his position. “ Well,” he repeated. 

“ What did you say ? ” said Oily.—“ Then ? ” 

“No, afore. How did you do it, Gabe?” said Oily, 
comfortably fixing her chin in her hands, and looking up 
in her brother’s face. 

“ Oh, the usual way ! ” said Gabriel, with a motion of his 
pipe, to indicate vague and glittering generalities of court¬ 
ship. 

“ But how ? Gabe, tell me all about it.” 

“Well,” said Gabriel, looking up at the roof, “wimmen 
is bashful ez a general thing, and thar’s about only one way 
ez a man can get at ’em, and that ez, by being kinder keer- 
less and bold. Ye see, Oily, when I kem inter the house, 
I sorter jest chucked Sal under the chin—thet way, you 
know—and then went up and put my arm around the 
widder’s waist, and kissed her two or three times, you know, 
jest to be sociable and familiar like.” 

“And to think, Gabe, thet after all that she wouldn’t 
hev ye,” said Oily. 

“Not at any price,” said Gabriel, positively. 

“ The disgustin’ creature ! ” said Oily. “ I’d jest like to 
ketch that Manty hangin’ round yer after that ! ” she con¬ 
tinued, savagely, with a vicious shake of her little fist 
“And just to think, only to-day we give her her pick o' 
them pups! ” 

“ Hush, Oily, ye mustn’t do anythin’ o’ the sort,” said 


Mrs. Markle, 


85 

Gabriel, hastily. “Ye must never let on to any one any¬ 
thing. It’s confidence, Oily, confidence, ez these sort o* 
things alius is—atween you and me. Besides,” he went on, 
reassuringly, “that’s nothin’. Lord, afore a man’s married 
he hez to go through this kind o’ thing a dozen times. It’s 
expected. There was a man as I once knowed,” continued 
Gabriel, with shameless mendacity, “ez went through it 
fifty times, and he was a better man nor me, and could 
shake a thousand dollars in the face of any woman. Why, 
bless your eyes. Oily, some men jest likes it—it’s excite¬ 
ment—like perspectin’.” 

“But what did you say, Gabe?” said Oily, returning 
with fresh curiosity to the central fact, and ignoring the 
Pleasures of Rejection as expounded by Gabriel 

“ Well, I just up, and sez this: Susan Markle, sez I, the 
case is just this. Here’s Oily and me up there on the hill, 
and jess you and Manty down there on the Gulch, and 
mountings wild and valleys deep two loving hearts do now 
divide, and there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be one family 
and one house, and that family and that house mine. And 
it’s for you to say when. And then I kinder slung in a 
little more poetry, and sorter fooled around with that ring,” 
said Gabriel, showing a heavy plain gold ring on his power¬ 
ful little finger, “and jest kissed her agin, and chucked 
Sally under the chin, and that’s all” 

“ And she wouldn’t hev yp, Gabe,” said Oily, thoughtfully, 
“after all that? Well, who wants her to? I don’t.” 

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Oily,” said Gabriel 
“ But ye mustn’t let on a word of it to her. She talks o’ 
coming up on the hill to build, and wants to buy that part 
of the old claim where I perspected last summer, so’s to be 
near us, and look arter you. And, Oily,” continued Gabriel, 
gravely, “ ef she comes round yer foolin’ around me ez she 
used to do, ye mustn’t mind that—it’s women’s ways.” 


B6 Gabriel Conroy, 

** I’d like to catch her at it,” said Oily. 

Gabriel looked at Oily with a guilty satisfaction, and 
drew her toward him. “ And now that it’s all over. Oily,” 
said he, “it’s all the better ez it is. You and me’ll get 
along together ez comfortable as we kin. I talked with 
some of the boys the other day about sendin’ for a school- 
marm from Marysville, and Mrs. Markle thinks it’s a good 
idee. And you’ll go to school, Oily. I’ll run up to Marys¬ 
ville next week and get you some better clothes, and we’ll 
be just ez happy ez ever. And then some day, Oily, afore 
you know it—them things come always suddent—I’ll jest 
make a strike outer that ledge, and we’ll be rich. Thar’s 
money in that ledge. Oily, I’ve alius allowed that. And 
then we’ll go—you and me—to San Francisco, and we’ll 
hev a big house, and I’ll jest invite a lot of little girls, the 
best they is in Frisco, to play with you, and you’ll hev all 
the teachers you want, and women ez will be glad to look 
arter ye. And then maybe I might make it up with Mrs. 
Markle ”- 

“ Never !” said Oily, passionately. 

“Never it is!” said the artful Gabriel, with a glow of 
pleasure in his eyes, and a slight stirring of remorse in 
his breast. “ But it’s time that small gals like you was 
abed.” 

Thus admonished, Oily retired behind the screen, taking 
the solitary candle, and leaving her brother smoking his 
pipe by the light of the slowly dying fire. But Oily did 
not go to sleep, and half an hour later, peering out of the 
screen, she saw her brother still sitting by the fire, his pipe 
extinguished, and his head resting on his hand. She went 
up to him so softly that she startled him, shaking a drop oi 
water on the hand that she suddenly threw round his 
neck. 

“You ain’t worrying about that woman, Gabe ? ” 



The Artful Gabriel is Discovered. 8? 

No,” said Gabriel, with a laugh. 

Oily looked down at her hand. Gabriel looked up at 
the roof. “ There’s a leak thar that’s got to be stopped to¬ 
morrow. Go to bed, Oily, or you’ll take your death.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

IN WHICH THE ARTFUL GABRIEL IS DISCOVERED. 

Notwithstanding his assumed ease and a certain relief, 
which was real, Gabriel was far from being satisfied with 
the result of his visit to Mrs. Markle. Whatever may have 
actually occurred, not known to the reader except through 
Gabriel’s own disclosure to Oily, Gabriel’s manner hardly 
bore out the boldness and conclusiveness of his statement 
For a day or two afterward he resented any allusion to the 
subject from Oily, but on the third day he held a conver¬ 
sation with one of the Eureka Bar miners, which seemed to 
bear some remote reference to his experience. 

“Thar’s a good deal said lately in the papers,” began 
Gabriel, cautiously, “ in regard to breach o’ promise trials. 
Lookin’ at it, by and large, thar don’t seem to be much 
show for a fellow ez hez been in enny ways kind to a gal, 
is thar ? ” 

The person addressed, whom rumour declared to have 
sought One Horse Gulch as a place of refuge from his wife, 
remarked with an oath that women were blank fools anyway, 
and that on general principles they were not to be trusted. 

“ But thar must be a kind o’ gin’ral law on the subject,” 
urged Gabriel. “Now what would be your opinion if you 
was on a jury onto a case like this? It happened to a 
friend o’ mine in Frisco,” said Gabriel, with a marked 
parenthesis, “ a man ez you don’t know. Thar was a woman 
—we’ll say a widder—ez had been kinder bangin’ round 


88 Gabriel Conroy. 

him off and on for two or three year, and he hadn’t allowed 
anything to her about marryin.’ One day he goes down thar 
to her house, kinder easy-like, jest to pass the time o’ day, 
and be sociable ”- 

“ That’s bad,” interrupted the cynic. 

Yes,” said Gabriel, doubtingly, “ p’r’aps it does look bad, 
but you see he didn’t mean anythin’.” 

Well ? ” said the adviser. 

‘‘Well! thet’s all,” said Gabriel. 

“ All! ” exclaimed his companion, indignantly. 

“Yes, all. Now this woman kinder allows she’ll bring a 
suit agin him to make him marry her.” 

“ My opinion is,” said the adviser, bluntly, “ my opinion 
is, that the man was a fool, and didn’t tell ye the truth 
nuther, and I’d give damages agin him, for being such a 
fool.” 

This opinion was so crushing to Gabriel that he turned 
hopelessly away. Nevertheless, in his present state of mind, 
he could not refrain from pushing his inquiries further, and 
in a general conversation which took place at Briggs’s store, 
in the afternoon, among a group of smokers, Gabriel artfully 
introduced the subject of courtship and marriage. 

“ Thar’s different ways of getting at the feelin’s of a 
woman,” said the oracular Johnson, after a graphic statement 
of his own method of ensnaring the affections of a former 
sweetheart, “ thar’s different ways jest as thar’s different men 
and women in the world. One man’s way won’t do with 
some wimmen. But thar’s one way ez is pretty sure to fetch 
’em allers. That is, to play off indifferent—to never let on 
ye like ’em! To kinder look arter them in a gin’ral sort 
o’ way, pretty much as Gabe thar looks arter the sick !—but 
not to say anythin’ particler. To make them understand 
that they’ve got to do all the courtin’, ef thar’s enny to be 
done. What’s the matter, Gabe, ye ain’t goin’ ? ” 



The Artful Gabriel is Discovered, 89 

Gabriel, who had risen in great uneasiness, muttered 
something about “ its being time to go home,” and then sat 
down again, looking at Johnson in fearful fascination. 

“ That kind o’ thing is pretty sure to fetch almost enny 
woman,” continued Johnson, “ and a man ez does it orter 
be looked arter. It orter be put down by law. It’s 
tamperin’, don’t yer see, with the holiest affections. Sich 
a man orter be spotted wharever found.” 

“But mebbe the man don’t mean anythin’—mebbe it’s 
jest his way,” suggested Gabriel, ruefully, looking around 
in the faces of the party, “ mebbe he don’t take to wimmen 
and marriage nat’ral, and it’s jest his way.” 

“Way be blowed!” said the irate Johnson, scornfully. 
“ Ketch him, indeed ! It’s jest the artfullest kind o’ artful¬ 
ness. It’s jest begging on a full hand.” 

Gabriel rose slowly, and, resisting any further attempts to 
detain him, walked to the door, and, after a remark on the 
threatening nature of the weather, delivered in a manner 
calculated to impress his audience with his general indif¬ 
ference to the subject then under discussion, melted deject¬ 
edly away into the driving rain that had all day swept over 
One Horse Gulch, and converted its one long narrow street 
into a ditch of turbulent yellow water. 

“ Thet Gabe seems to be out o’ sorts to-day,” said Johnson. 
“ I heerd Lawyer Maxwell asking arter him this morning; 
I reckon thar’s suthin’ up ! Gabe ain’t a bad sort of chap. 
Hezen’t got enny too much sabe about him, but he’s mighty 
good at looking arter sick folks, and thet kind o’ man’s a 
power o’ use in this camp. Hope thar ain’t anything ez will 
interfere with his sphere o’ usefulness.” 

“ May be a woman scrape,” suggested Briggs. “ He 
seemed sort o’ bound up in what you was saying about 
women jest now. Thar is folks round yer,” said Briggs, 
dropping his voice and looking about him, “ez believes 


90 


Gabriel Conroy, 

that that yer Oily, which he lets on to be his sister, to be 
actooally his own child. No man would tote round a child 
like that, and jest bind himself up in her, and give up 
wimmen and whisky, and keerds, and kempeny, ef it wasn’t 
his own. Thet ain’t like brothers in my part of the 
country.” 

“ It’s a mighty queer story he tells, ennyways—all this 
yer stuff about Starvation Camp and escapin’,” suggested 
another. “ I never did, somehow, take enny stock in that.” 

“Well, it’s his own look out,” concluded Johnson. “ It’s 
nothin’ to me. Ef I’ve been any service to him pintin’ out 
sick people, and kinder makin’ suggestions here and thar, 
how he should look arter them, he’s welcome to it. I don’t 
go back on my record, if he hez got into trouble.” 

“ And I’m sure,” said Briggs, “ if I did allow him to 
come in here and look arter thet sick Mexican, it ain’t for 
me to be expected to look arter his moril character too.’* 
But here the entrance of a customer put a stop to further 
criticism. 

Meanwhile the unfortunate subject of this discussion, by 
clinging close to the walls of houses, had avoided the keen 
blast that descended from the mountain, and had at last 
reached the little trail that led through the gulch to his 
cabin on the opposite hill-side. Here Gabriel hesitated. 
To follow that trail would lead him past the boarding-house 
of Mrs. Markle. In the light of the baleful counsel he had 
just received, to place himself as soon again in the way of 
danger seemed to him to be only a provocation of fate. 
That the widow and Sal might swoop down upon him as he 
passed, and compel him to enter; that the spectacle of his 
passing without a visit might superinduce instant hysterics 
on the part of the widow, appeared to his terror-stricken 
fancy as almost a certainty. The only other way home was 
by a circuitous road along the ridge of the hill, at least 


The Artful Gabriel is Discovered, 91 

three miles farther. Gabriel did not hesitate long, but 
began promptly to ascend the hill. This was no easy task 
in the face of a strong gale and torrents of beating rain, but 
the overcoming of physical difficulties by the exercise of 
his all conquering muscles, and the fact that he was doing 
something, relieved his mind of its absurd terrors. When he 
had reached the summit he noticed for the first time the full 
tx)wer of those subtle agencies that had been silently at work 
during the last week’s steady rain. A thin trickling moun¬ 
tain rill where he had two weeks before slaked his thirst 
during a ramble with Oily, was now transformed into a roar¬ 
ing cataract; the brook that they had leaped across was now 
a swollen river. There were slowly widening pools in the 
valleys, darkly glancing sheets of water on the distant plains, 
and a monotonous rush and gurgle always in the air. It was 
half an hour later, and two miles farther on his rough road, 
that he came in view of the narrow precipitous gorge through 
which the Wingdam stage passed on its way from Marysville. 
As he approached nearer he could see that the little mountain 
stream which ran beside the stage road had already slightly 
encroached upon the road-bed, and that here and there the 
stage road itself was lost in drifts of standing water. “ It 
will be pretty rough drivin’ up that canon,” said Gabriel to 
himself as he thought of the incoming Wingdam stage, now 
nearly due; “ mighty onpleasant and risky with narvous 
leaders, but thar’s worse things than that in this yer world,” 
he meditated, as his mind reverted again to Mrs. Markle, 
and ef I could change places with Yuba Bill, and get on 
that box and Oily inside—Td do it! ” 

But just then the reservoir of the Wingdam ditch came 
in view on the hill beside him, and with it a revelation that 
in a twinkling displaced Mrs. Markle, and seemed almost 
to change the man’s entire nature ! What was it ? Appa¬ 
rently nothing to the eye of the ordinary traveller. The dam 


92 Gabriel Conroy. 

was full, and through a cut-off the overplus water was escap* 
ing with a roar. Nothing more ? Yes—to an experienced 
eye the escaping water was not abating the quantity in the 
dam. Was that all ? No ! Halfway down the rudely con¬ 
structed adobe bank of the dam, the water was slowly ooz¬ 
ing and trickling through a slowly-widening crevice, over 
the rocks above the gorge and stage road below! The wall 
of the dam was giving way ! To tear off coat and all im¬ 
peding garments, to leap from rock to rock, and boulder to 
boulder, hanging on by slippery chimisal and the decayed 
roots of trees; to reach at the risk of life and limb the 
canon below, and then to run at the highest speed to warn 
the incoming stage of the danger before it should enter the 
narrow gorge, was only the resolve and action of a brave 
man. But to do this without the smallest waste of strength 
that ought to be preserved, to do this with the greatest 
economy of force, to do this with the agility and skill of a 
mountaineer, and the reserved power of a giant; to do this 
with a will so simple, direct, and unhesitating, that the 
action appeared to have been planned and rehearsed days 
before, instead of being the resolution of the instant,—this 
belonged to Gabriel Conroy! And to have seen him settle 
into a long swinging trot, and to have observed his calm, 
grave, earnest, but unexcited face, and quiet, steadfast eye, 
you would have believed him some healthy giant simply 
exercising himself. 

He had not gone half a mile before his quick ear caught 
a dull sound and roar of advancing water. Yet even then 
he only slightly increased his steady stride, as if he had 
oeen quickened and followed by his trainer rather than by 
approaching Death. At the same moment there was a quick 
rattle and clatter in the road ahead—a halt, and turning 
back, for Gabriel’s warning shout had run before him like 
a bullet. But it was too late. The roaring water behind him 


The Artful Gabriel is Discovered, 93 

Btnick him and bore him down, and the next instant swept 
the coach and horses a confused, struggling, black mass, 
against the rocky walls of the canon. And then it was that 
the immense reserved strength of Gabriel came into play. 
Set upon by the almost irresistible volume of water, he did 
not waste his power in useless opposition, but allowed him¬ 
self to be swept hither and thither until he touched a 
branch of chimisal that depended from the canon side. 
Seizing it with one sudden and mighty effort, he raised him¬ 
self above the sweep and suction of the boiling flood. The 
coach was gone; where it had stood a few black figures 
struggled, swirled, and circled. One of them was a woman. 
In an instant Gabriel plunged into the yellow water. A few 
strokes brought him to her side; in another moment he 
had encircled her waist with his powerful arm and lifted her 
head above the surface, when he was seized by two de¬ 
spairing arms from the other side. Gabriel did not shake 
them off. “ Take hold of me lower down and I’ll help ye 
both,” he shouted, as he struck out with his only free arm 
for the chimisal. He reached it; drew himself up so that he 
could grasp it with his teeth, and then, hanging on by his jaw, 
raised his two clinging companions beside him. They had 
barely grasped it, when another ominous roar was heard below, 
and another wall of yellow water swept swiftly up the canon. 
The chimisal began to yield to their weight. Gabriel dug 
his fingers into the soil about its roots, clutched the jagged 
edges of a rock beneath, and threw his arm about the 
woman, pressing her closely to the face of the wall. As the 
wave swept over them, there was a sudden despairing cry, a 
splash, and the man was gone. Only Gabriel and the woman 
remained. They were safe, but for the moment only. 
Gabriel’s left hand grasping an insecure projection, was all 
that sustained their united weight. Gabriel, for the first time, 
looked down upon the woman. Then he said hesitatingly— 


94 


Gabriel Conroy. 

“Kin ye hold yourself a minnit?”—“ Yes.” 

Even at that critical moment some occult quality of 
sweetness in her voice thrilled him. 

“ Lock your hands together hard, and sling ^em over my 
neck.” She did so. Gabriel freed his right hand. He 
scarcely felt the weight thus suddenly thrown upon his 
shoulders, but cautiously groped for a projection on the 
rock above. He found it, raised himself by a supreme 
effort, until he secured a foothold in the hole left by the 
uprooted chimisal bush. Here he paused. 

“ Kin ye hang on a minnit longer ?” 

“ Go on,” she said. 

Gabriel went on. He found another projection, and 
another, and gradually at last reached a ledge a foot wide, 
near the top of the cliff. Here he paused. It was the 
woman’s turn to speak. 

“ Can you climb to the top ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes—if you ”- 

“ Go on,” she said, simply. 

Gabriel continued the ascent cautiously. In a few 
minutes he had reached the top. Here her hands suddenly 
relaxed their grasp; she would have slipped to the ground 
had not Gabriel caught her by the waist, lifted her in his 
arms, and borne her to a spot where a fallen pine-tree had 
carpeted and cushioned the damp ground with its withered 
tassels. Here he laid her down with that exquisite delicacy 
and tenderness of touch which was so habitual to him in his 
treatment of all helplessness as to be almost unconscious. 
But she thanked him, with such a graceful revelation of 
small white teeth, and such a singular look out of her dark 
grey eyes, that he could not help looking at her again. She 
was a small light-haired woman, tastefully and neatly dressed, 
^nd of a type and class unknown to him. But for her smile, 
ne would not have thought her pretty. But even with thai 



Simplicity versus Sagacity. 95 

smile on her face, she presently paled and fainted. At the 
same moment Gabriel heard the sound of voices, and, 
looking up, saw two of the passengers, who had evidently 
escaped by climbing the cliff, coming towards them. And 
then—I know not how to tell it—but a sudden and awe¬ 
inspiring sense of his ambiguous and peculiar situation took 
possession of him. What would they think of it ? Would 
they believe his statement ? A sickening recollection of the 
late conversation at Briggs’s returned to him ; the indignant 
faces of the gaunt Sal and the plump Mrs. Markle were be¬ 
fore him ; even the questioning eyes of little Oily seemed to 
pierce his inmost soul, and, alas! this hero, the victorious 
giant, turned and fled. 


CHAPTER V. 

SIMPLICITY versus SAGACITY. 

When Gabriel reached his home it was after dark, and Oily 
was anxiously waiting to receive him. 

“You’re wet all through, you awful Gabe, and covered 
with mud into the bargain. Go and change your clothes, 
or you’ll get your death, as sure as you’re a born sinner ! ” 
The tone and manner in which this was uttered was sqix^ 
thing unusual with Oily, but Gabriel was too glad to escape 
.‘iirther questioning to criticise or rebuke it. But when he 
had reappeared from behind the screen with dry clothes, he 
was surprised to observe by the light of the newly-lit candle 
that Oily herself had undergone since morning a decided 
change in her external appearance. Not to speak alone of an 
unusual cleanliness of face and hands, and a certain attempt 
at confining her yellow curls with a vivid pink ribbon, there 
was an unwonted neatness in her attire, and some essay 
at adornment in a faded thread-lace collar which she had 


96 Gabriel Conroy. 

found among her mother’s “things” in the family bag, and 
a purple neck-ribbon. 

“ It seems to me,” said the delighted Gabriel, “ that some¬ 
body else hez been dressin’ up and makin’ a toylit, sence 
I’ve been away. Hev you been in the ditches agin, Oily ? ” 

“ No,” said Oily, with some dignity of manner, as she 
busied herself in setting the table for supper. 

“ But I reckon I never seen ye look so peart afore, Oily; 
who’s been here ? ” he added, with a sudden alarm. 

“Nobody,” said Oily; “I reckon some folks kin get 
along and look decent without the help of other folks, least- 
ways of Susan Markle.” 

At this barbed arrow Gabriel winced slightly. “ See yer, 
Oily,” said Gabriel, “ye mustn’t talk thet way about thet 
woman. You’re only a chile—and ef yer brother did let on 
to ye, in confidence, certing things ez a brother may say to 
his sister, ye oughtn’t say anythin’ about it.” 

“ Say anythin’! ” echoed Oily, scornfully; “ do you think 
I’d ever let on to thet woman ennything? Ketch me ! ” 

Gabriel looked up at his sister in awful admiration, and 
felt at the depths of his conscience-stricken and self-depre¬ 
catory nature that he didn’t deserve so brave a little defender. 
For a moment he resolved to tell her the truth, but a fear of 
Oily’s scorn and a desire to bask in the sunshine of her 
active sympathy withheld him. “Besides,” he added to 
himself, in a single flash of self-satisfaction, “ this yer thing 
may be the makin’ o’ thet gal yet. Look at thet collar, 
Gabriel! look at thet hair, Gabriel! all your truth-tellin’ 
never fetched outer thet purty child what thet one yarn 
did.” 

Nevertheless, as Gabriel sat down to his supper he was 
still haunted by the ominous advice and counsel he had 
heard that day. When Oily had finished her meal, he 
noticed that she had forborne, evidently at great persona* 


Simplicity versus Sagacity. 97 

sacrifice, to sop the frying-pan with her bread. He turned 
to her gravely— 

“ Ef you wus ever asked, Oily, ef I had been sweet upon 
Mrs. Markle, wot would ye say ? ” 

“ Say,” said Oily savagely, “ I’d say that if there ever 
was a woman ez had run arter a man with iess call to do 
it—it was Mrs. Markle—that same old disgustin’ Susan 
Markle. Thet’s wot I’d say, and I’d say it—to her face ! 
Gabe, see here ! ” 

Well,” said the delighted Gabriel. 

“ Ef that school-ma’am comes up here, do you jest make 
up to her! ” 

“ Oily! ” ejaculated the alarmed Gabriel. 

“ You jest go for her ! You jest do for her what you did 
for that Susan Markle. And jest you do it, if you can, 
Gabe—when Mrs. Markle’s around—or afore little Manty— 
she’ll go and tell her mother—she tells her everything. I’ve 
heerd, Gabe, that some o’ them school-ma’ams is nice.” 

In his desire to please Oily, Gabriel would have imparted 
to her the story of his adventure in the canon, but a vague 
fear that Oily might demand from him an instant offer of 
his hand and heart to the woman he had saved, checked 
the disclosure. And the next moment there was a rap at 
the door of the cabin. 

“ I forgot to say, Gabe, that Lawyer Maxwell was here 
to-day to see ye,” said Oily, “ and I bet you thet’s him. If 
he wants you to nuss anybody, Gabe, don’t ye do it! You 
got enough to do to look arter me !” 

Gabriel rose with a perplexed face and opened the door. 
A tall dark man, with a beard heavily streaked with grey, 
entered. There was something in his manner and dress, 
although both conformed to local prejudices and customs, 
that denoted a type of man a little above the average social 
ondition of One Horse Gulch. Unlike Gabriel’s previous 

VOL. IV. G 


98 Gabriel Conroy. 

evening visitor, he did not glance around him, but fixed 
a pair of keen, half-humorous, half-interrogating grey eyes 
upon his host’s face, and kept them there. The habitual 
expression of his features was serious, except for a certain 
half-nervous twitching at the left corner of his mouth, which 
continued usually, until he stopped and passed his hand softly 
across it. The impression always left on the spectator was, 
that he had wiped away a smile, as some people do a tear. 

“ I don’t think I ever before met you, Gabriel,” he said, 
advancing and offering his hand. “ My name is Maxwell. 
I think you’ve heard of me. I have come for a little talk 
on a matter of business.” 

The blank dismay of Gabriel’s face did not escape him, 
nor the gesture with which he motioned to Oily to retire. 

“ It’s quite evident,” he said to himself, “ that the child 
knows nothing of this, or is unprepared. I have taken him 
by surprise.” 

“ If I mistake not, Gabriel,” said Maxwell aloud, “ your 
little—er—girl—is as much concerned in this matter as your¬ 
self. Why not let her remain ? ” 

“ No, no said Gabriel, now feeling perfectly convinced 
in the depths of his conscience-stricken soul that Maxwell 
was here as the legal adviser of the indignant Mrs. Markle. 
“ No ! Oily, run out and get some chips in the wood-house 
»gin to-morrow morning’s fire. Run ! ” 

Oily ran. Maxwell cast a look after the child, wiped his 
.mouth, and leaning his elbow on the table, fixed his eyes 
on Gabriel. “ I have called to-night, Gabriel, to see if we 
can arrange a certain matter without trouble, and even—as 
[ am employed against you—with as little talk as possible 
I'o be frank, I am entrusted with the papers in a legal pro* 
ceeding against you. Now, see here ! is it necessary foi 
me to say what these proceedings are ? Is it even necessary 
for me to give the name of my client ? ” 


Simplicity versus Sagacity. 99 

Gabriel dropped his eyes, but even then the frank honesty 
of his nature spoke for him. He raised his head and said 
simply—“ No ! ” 

Lawyer Maxwell was for a moment staggered, but only 
for a moment. “ Good,” he said thoughtfully ; “ you are 
frank. Let me ask you now if, to avoid legal proceedings, 
publicity, and scandal—and allow me to add, the almost 
absolute certainty of losing in any suit that might be brought 
against you—would you be willing to abandon this house 
and claim at once, allowing it to go for damages in the past ? 
If you would, I think I could accept it for such. I think I 
could promise that even this question of a closer relation¬ 
ship would not come up. Briefly, she might keep her name, 
andjjw might keep yours, and you would remain to each 
other as strangers. What do you say ? ” 

Gabriel rose quickly and took the lawyer’s hands with 
a tremulous grasp. “ You’re a kind man, Mr. Maxwell,” 
he said, shaking the lawyer’s hand vigorously; “ a good 
man. It’s a bad business, and you’ve made the best of it. 
Ef you’d been my own lawyer instead o’ hers, you couldn’t 
hev treated me better. I’ll leave here at once. I’ve been 
thinking o’ doing it ever since this yer thing troubled me; 
but Ill go to-morrow. Ye can hev the house, and all it 
contains. If I had anything else in a way of a fee to offer 
ye, I’d do it. She kin hev the house and all that they is 
of it. And then nothing will be said ? ” 

“ Not a word,” said Maxwell, examining Gabriel curi¬ 
ously. 

“No talk—nothin’ in the newspapers?” continued 
Gabriel. 

“Your conduct toward her and your attitude in this 
whole affair will be kept a profound secret, unless you 
happen to betray it yourself; and that is my one reason 
tor advising you to leave here.* 


LofC. 


lOO Gabriel Conroy, 

“ I’ll do it—to-morrow,” said Gabriel, rubbing his hands. 

Wouldn’t you like to have me sign some bit o’ paper ? ” 
'‘No, no,” said the lawyer, wiping his mouth with his 
hand, and looking at Gabriel as if he belonged to some 
entirely new species. “ Let me advise you, as a friend, to 
sign no paper that might be brought against you hereafter. 
Your simple abandonment of the claim and house is 
sufficient for our purposes. I will make out no papers in 
the case until Thursday; by that time I expect to find, no 
one to serve them on. You understand ? ” 

Gabriel nodded, and wrung the lawyer’s hand warmly. 
Maxwell walked to\\|^rd the door, still keeping his glance 
fixed on Gabriel’s clear, honest eyes. On the threshold he 
paused, and leaning against it, wiped his mouth with a slow 
gesture, and said—“ From all I can hear, Gabriel, you are 
a simple, honest fellow, and I frankly confess to you, but 
for the admission you have made to me, I would have 
thought you incapable of attempting to wrong a woman. I 
should have supposed it some mistake. I am not a judge of 
the motives of men ; I am too old a lawyer, and too familiar 
with things of this kind to be surprised at men’s motives, 
or even to judge their rights or wrongs by my own. But 
now that we understand each other, would you mind telling 
me what was your motive for this peculiar and monstrous 
form of deception ? Understand me ; it will not alter my 
opinion of you, which is, that you are not a bad man. But 
I am curious to know how you could deliberately set about 
to wrong this woman; what was the motive ? ” 

Gabriel’s face flushed deeply. Then he hfted his eyes 
and pointed to the screen. The lawyer followed the direc¬ 
tion of his finger, and saw Oily standing in the doorway. 

Lawyer Maxwell smiled. “ It is the sex, anyway,” he 
said to himself; “perhaps a little younger than I supposed • 
of course, his own child.” Me nodded again, smiled at Oily 


Simplicity versus Sagacity, loi 

and with the consciousness of a professional triumph, blent 
with a certain moral satisfaction that did not always neces¬ 
sarily accompany his professional success, he passed out 
into the night. 

Gabriel avoided conversation with Oily until late in the 
evening. When she had taken her accustomed seat at his 
feet before the fire, she came directly to the point “What 
did he want, Gabe ? ” 

“ Nothing partickler,” said Gabriel, with an affectation of 
supreme indifference. “ I was thinking, Oily, that I’d tell 
you a story. It’s a long time since I told one.” It had 
been Gabriel’s habit to improve these precious moments by 
relating the news of the camp, or the current topics of the 
day, artfully imparted as pure fiction; but since his pre¬ 
occupation with Mrs. Markle, he had lately omitted it. 

Oily -nodded her head, and Gabriel went on— 

“ Once upon a time they lived a man ez hed lived and 
would live—for thet was wot was so sing’ler about him—all 
alone, ’cept for a little sister ez this man hed, wot he loved 
very dearly. They was no one ez this man would ever let 
ring in, so to speak, between him and this little sister, and 
the heaps o’ private confidence, and the private talks about 
this and thet, thet this yer man hed with this little sister, 
was wonderful to behold.” 

“ Was it a real man—a pure man ? ” queried Oily. 

“ The man was a real man, but the little sister, I oughter 
say, was a kind o’ fairy, you know. Oily, ez hed a heap o’ 
wower to do good to this yer man, unbeknownst to him 
«.nd afore his face. They lived in a sorter paliss in the 
woods, this yer man and his sister. And one day this yer 
man hed a heap o’ troubil come upon him that was sich ez 
would make him leave this beautiful paliss, and he didn’t 
know how to let on to his little sister about it; and so he 
up, and he sez to her, sez he, ‘ Gloriana ’ —thet was her 


102 


Gabriel Conroy. 

name—‘ Gloriana,’ sez he, ‘ we must quit th.s beautiful 
paliss and wander into furrin parts, and the reason why is 
a secret ez I can’t tell ye.’ And this yer little sister jest 
ups and sez, ‘ Wot’s agreeable to you, brother, is agreeable 
to me, for we is everything to each other the wide world 
over, and variety is the spice o’ life, and I’ll pack my traps 
to-morrow.’ And she did. For why. Oily? Why, don’t 
ye see, this yer little sister was a fairy, and knowed it all 
without bein’ told. And they went away to furrin parts and 
strange places, war they built a more beautiful paliss than 
the other was, and they lived thar peaceful like and happy 
all the days o’ their life.” 

“ And thar wasn’t any old witch of a Mrs. Markle to 
bother them. When are ye goin’, Gabe ? ” asked the prac¬ 
tical Oily. 

“ I thought to-morrow,” said Gabriel, helplessly abandon¬ 
ing all allegory, and looking at his sister in respectful awe, 
thet ez, I reckoned. Oily, to get to Casey’s in time to take 
the arternoon stage up to Marysville.” 

“Well,” said Oily, “ then I’m goin’ to bed now.” 

“Oily,” said Gabriel reproachfully, as he watched the 
little figure disappear behind the canvas, “ ye didn’t kiss me 
^ur good-night.” 

Oily came back. “ You ole Gabe—you ! ” she said 
patronisingly, as she ran her fingers through his tangled 
curls, and stooped to bestow a kiss on his forehead from an 
apparently immeasurable moral and intellectual height— 
“You old big Gabe, what would you do without me, I’d 
like to know ? ” 

The next morning Gabriel was somewhat surprised at 
observing Oily, immediately after the morning meal, proceed 
gravely to array herself in the few more respectable garments 
that belonged to her wardrobe. Over a white muslin frock, 
mellow and scant with age, she had tied a scarf of glaring 


Simplicity versus Sagacity, 103 

cheap pink ribbon, and over this again she had secured, by 
the aid of an enormous tortoiseshel] brooch, a large black and 
white check shawl of her mother’s, that even repeated fold¬ 
ing could not reduce in size. She then tied over her yellow 
curls a large straw hat trimmed with white and yellow 
daisies and pale-green ribbon, and completed her toilet by 
unfurling over her shoulder a small yellow parasol Gabriel, 
who had been watching these preparations in great concern, 
at last ventured to address the bizarre but pretty little figure 
before him. 

“ War you goin’. Oily ? ” 

“Down the gulch to say good-bye to the Reed gals. 
'Tain’t the square thing to vamose the ranch without lettin* 
on to folks.” 

“Ye ain’t goin’ near Mrs. Markle’s, are ye?” queried 
Gabriel, in deprecatory alarm. 

Oily turned a scornful flash of her clear blue eye upon 
her brother, and said curtly, “ Ketch me ! ” 

There was something so appalling in her quickness, such 
a sudden revelation of quaint determination in the lines of 
her mouth and eyebrows, that Gabriel could say no more. 
Without a word he watched the yellow sunshade and flap¬ 
ping straw hat with its streaming ribbons slowly disappear 
down the winding descent of the hill And then a sudden 
and grotesque sense of dependence upon the child—an 
appreciation of some reserved quality in her nature hitherto 
unsuspected by him—something that separated them now, 
and in the years to come would slowly widen the rift between 
them—came upon him with such a desolating sense of lone¬ 
liness that it seemed unendurable. He did not dare to 
re-enter or look back upon the cabin, but pushed on vaguely 
toward his claim on the hillside. On his way thither he 
had to pass a solitary red-wood tree that he had often noticed, 
whose enormous bulk belittled the rest of the forest; yet, 


104 


Gabriel Conroy. 

also, by reason of its very isolation had acquired a 
certain lonely pathos that was far beyond the suggestion of 
its heroic size. It seemed so imbecile, so gratuitously large, 
so unproductive of the good that might be expected of its 
bulk, so unlike the smart spruces and pert young firs and 
larches that stood beside it, that Gabriel instantly accepted 
it as a symbol of himself, and could not help wondering if 
there were not some other locality where everything else 
might be on its own plane of existence. “ If I war to go 
thar," said Gabriel to himself, “ I wonder if I might not suit 
better than I do yer, and be of some sarvice to thet child.” 
He pushed his way through the underbrush, and stood upon 
the ledge that he had first claimed on his arrival at One 
Horse Gulch. It was dreary—it was unpromising—a vast 
stony field high up in air, covered with scattered boulders 
of dark iron-grey rock. Gabriel smiled bitterly. “ Any 
other man but me couldn’t hev bin sich a fool as to preempt 
sich a claim fur gold. P’raps it’s all for the best that I’m 
short of it now,” said Gabriel, as he turned away, and 
descended the hill to his later claim in the gulch, which 
yielded him that pittance known in the mining dialect as 
“grub.” 

It was nearly three o’clock before he returned to the 
cabin with the few tools that he had gathered. When he 
did so, he found Oily awaiting him, with a slight flush of 
excitement on her cheek, but no visible evidences of any late 
employment to be seen in the cabin. 

“Ye don’t seem to have been doin’ much packin’. Oily,” 
said Gabriel—“ tho ’ thar ain’t, so to speak, much to pack 
up.” 

“ Thar ain’t no use in packin’, Gabe,” replied Oily, look 
Ing directly into the giant’s bashful eyes. 

“No use? ” echoed Gabriel. 

“ No sort o’ use,” said Oily decidedly. “ We ain’t goin* 


Simplicity versus Sagacity. 105 

Gabe, and that’s the end on’t. I’ve been over to see 
Lawyer Maxwell, and I’ve made it all right! ” 

Gabriel dropped speechless into a chair, and gazed, open- 
mouthed, at his sister. “ I’ve made it all right, Gabe,” 
continued Oily coolly, “ you’ll see. I jest went over thar 
this morning, and hed a little talk with the lawyer, and gin 
him a piece o ’ my mind about Mrs. Markle—and jest 
settled the whole thing.” 

“ Good Lord ! Oily, what did you say ? ” 

Say ? ” echoed Oily. “ I jest up and told him every¬ 
thin ’ I knew about thet woman, and I never told you, Gabe, 
the half of it. I jest sed ez how she’d been runnin ’ round 
arter you ever sence she first set eyes on you, when you was 
nussin ’ her husband wot died. How you never ez much 
ez looked at her ontil I set you up to it ! How she used 
to come round yer, and sit and sit and look at you, Gabe, 
and kinder do this et ye over her shoulder.”—(Here Oily 
achieved an admirable imitation of certain arch glances of 
Mrs. Markle that would have driven that estimable lady 
frantic with rage, and even at this moment caused the bash¬ 
ful blood of Gabriel to fly into his very eyes.) “And how 
she used to let on all sorts of excuses to get you over thar, 
and how you refoosed ! And wot a deceitful, old, mean, 
disgustin’ critter she was enny way ! ” and here Oily paused 
for want of breath. 

“ And wot did he say ? ” said the equally breathless Gabriel. 

“ Nothin’ at first! Then he laughed and laughed, and 
laughed till I thought he’d bust! And then—let me see,” 
reflected the conscientious Oily, “he said thar was some 
‘ absurd blunder and mistake ’—that’s jest what he called 
thet Mrs. Markle, Gabe—those was his very words ! And 
then he set up another yell o’ laughin’, and somehow, Gabe, 
I got to laughin’, and she got to laughin’ too 1 ” And Oily 
laughed at the recollection. 


io6 Gabriel Conroy. 

“ Who’s she ? ” asked Gabriel, with a most lugubrious face 

“ O Gabe ! you think everybody’s Mrs. Markle,” said 
Oily swiftly. “ She was a lady ez was with thet Lawyer 
Maxwell, ez heerd it all. Why, Lord ! she seemed to take ez 
much interest in it as the lawyer. P’r’aps,” said Oily, with 
a slight degree of conscious pride as raconteur^ “ p’r’aps it 
was the way I told it. I was thet mad, Gabe, and sassy ! ” 
And what did he say ? ” continued Gabriel, still ruefully, 
for to him, as to most simple, serious natures devoid of any 
sense of humour, all this inconsequent hilarity looked sus¬ 
picious. 

“ Why, he was fur puttin’ right over here ‘ to explain,’ ez 
he called it, but the lady stopped him, and sed somethin’ 
low I didn’t get to hear. Oh, she must be a partickler 
friend o’ his, Gabe—for he did everythin’ thet she said. 
And she said I was to go back and say thet we needn’t hurry 
ourselves to git away at all. And thet’s the end of it, 
Gabe.” 

“ But didn’t he say anythin’ more, Oily ? ” said Gabriel 
anxiously. 

“No. He begin to ask me some questions about old 
times and Starvation Camp, and I’d made up my mind to 
disremember all them things ez I told you, Gabe, fur I’m 
jest sick of being called a cannon-ball, so I jest disremem- 
bered everything ez fast ez he asked it, until he sez, sez he 
to this lady, ‘ she evidently knows nothin’ o’ the whole thing.’ 
But the lady had been tryin’ to stop his askin’ questions, 
and he’d been kinder signin’ to me not to answer too. Oh, 
she’s cute, Gabe; I could see thet ez soon ez I set down.” 

“What did she look like, Oily?” said Gabriel, with an 
affectation of carelessness, but still by no means yet entirely 
relieved in his mind. 

“ Oh, she didn’t look like Mrs. Markle, Gabe, or any o’ 
thet kind. A kinder short woman, with white teeth, and a 


Simplicity versus Sagacity, 107 

small waist, and good clones. I didn’t sort o’ take to her 
much, Gabe, though she was very kind to me. I don’t 
know ez I could say ezackly what she did look like; I 
reckon thar ain’t anybody about yer looks like she. Saints 
and goodness ! Gabe, that’s her now \ thar she is ! ” 
Something darkened the doorway. Gabriel, looking up, 
beheld the woman he had saved in the canon. It was 
Madame Devarges! 


BOOK III. 


THE LEAD. 


CHAPTER 1 . 

AN OLD PIONEER OF '49. 

K THICK fog, dense, impenetrable, bluish-grey and raw* 
marked the advent of the gentle summer of 1854 on the 
California coast. The brief immature spring was scarcely 
yet over; there were flowers still to be seen on the outlying 
hills around San Francisco, and the wild oats were yet green 
on the Contra Costa mountains. But the wild oats were 
hidden under a dim India-inky veil, and the wild flowers 
accepted the joyless embraces of the fog with a staring 
waxen rigidity. In short, the weather was so uncomfortable 
that the average Californian was more than ever inclined to 
impress the stranger aggressively with the fact that fogs were 
healthy, and that it was the “ finest climate on the earth.” 

Perhaps no one was better calculated or more accus¬ 
tomed to impress the stranger with this belief than Mr. 
Peter Dumphy, banker and capitalist. His outspoken faith 
in the present and future of California was unbounded. 
His sincere convictions that no country or climate was ever 
before so signally favoured, his intoleration of any criticism 
or belief to the contrary, made him a representative maa 


109 


An Old Pioneer 

So positive and unmistakable was his habitual expression 
on these subjects, that it was impossible to remain long in 
his presence without becoming impressed with the idea that 
any other condition of society, climate, or civilization than 
that which obtained in California, was a mistake. Strangers 
were brought early to imbibe from this fountain ; timid and 
weak Californians, in danger of a relapse, had their faith 
renewed and their eyesight restored by bathing in this pool 
that Mr. Dumphy kept always replenished. Unconsciously, 
people at last got to echoing Mr. Dumphy’s views as their 
own, and much of the large praise that appeared in news¬ 
papers, public speeches, and correspondence, was first voiced 
by Dumphy. It must not be supposed that Mr. Dumphy’s 
positiveness of statement and peremptory manner were at 
all injurious to his social reputation. Owing to that sus¬ 
picion with which most frontier communities regard polite 
concession and suavity of method, Mr. Dumphy’s brusque 
frankness was always accepted as genuine. “ You always 
know what Pete Dumphy means,” was the average criticism. 
“ He ain’t goin’ to lie to please any man.” To a conceit 
that was so outspoken as to be courageous, to an ignorance 
that was so freely and shamelessly expressed as to make 
hesitating and cautious wisdom appear weak and unmanly 
beside it, Mr. Dumphy added the rare quality of perfect 
unconscientiousness unmixed with any adulterating virtue. 
It was with such rare combative qualities as these that Mr. 
Dumphy sat that morning in his private office and generally 
opposed the fog without, or rather its influence upon his 
patrons and society at large. The face he offered to it was 
a strong one, although superficially smooth, for since the 
reader had the honour of his acquaintance, he had shaved 
off his beard, as a probably unnecessary indication of char¬ 
acter. It was still early, but he had already despatched 
much business with that prompt decision which made even 


no 


Gabriel Conroy, 

an occasional blunder seem heroic. He was signing a lette? 
that one of his clerks had brought him, when he said briskly, 
without looking up—Send Mr. Ramirez in.” 

Mr. Ramirez, who had already called for t ftree successive 
days without obtaining an audience of Dumphy, entered the 
private room with an excited sense of having been wronged, 
which, however, instantly disappeared, as far as external 
manifestation was concerned, on his contact with the hard- 
headed, aggressive, and prompt Dumphy. 

“ How do ? ” said Dumphy, without looking up from his 
desk. Mr. Ramirez uttered some objection to the weather, 
and then took a seat uneasily near Dumphy. “ Go on,” said 
Dumphy, “I can listen.” 

“ It is I who came to listen,” said Mr. Ramirez, with great 
suavity. “ It is of the news I would hear.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Dumphy, signing his name rapidly to 
several documents, “Yes, Yes^ Yes.” He finished them, 
turned rapidly upon Ramirez, and said “Yes! ” again, in such 
a positive manner as to utterly shipwreck that gentleman’s 
self-control. “ Ramirez ! ” said Dumphy abruptly, “ how 
much have you got in that thing ? ” 

Mr. Ramirez, still floating on a sea of conjecture, could 
only say, “ Eh ! Ah ! It is what ? ” 

“ How deep are you ? How much would you lose ? ” 

Mr. Ramirez endeavoured to fix his eyes upon Dumphy’s. 
“ How—much—would I lose ?—if how ? If what ? ” 
“What—money—have—you—got—in—it?” said Mr. 
Dumphy, emphasising each word sharply with the blunt end 
of his pen on the desk. 

“ No money! I have much interest in the success of 
Madame Devarges! ” 

“ Then you’re not ‘ in ’ much ! That’s lucky for yoa 
Read that letter.—Show him in ! ” 

The last remark was in reply to a mumbUd interrogatory 


111 


An Old Pioneer of'e^c). 

of the clerk, who had just entered. Perhaps it was lucky 
for Mr. Ramirez that Mr. Dumphy’s absorption with his 
new visitor prevented his observation of his previous visitor’s 
face. As he read the letter, Ramirez’s face first turned to 
an ashen-grey hue, then to a livid purple, then he smacked 
his dry lips thrice, and said “ Cardmba ! ” then with burning 
eyes he turned towards Dumphy. 

‘‘You have read this?” he asked, shaking the letter 
towards Dumphy. 

‘‘ One moment,” interrupted Dumphy, finishing the con¬ 
versation with his latest visitor, and following him to the 
door. “Yes,” he continued, returning to his desk and 
facing Ramirez. “ Yes ! ” Mr. Ramirez could only shake 
the letter and smile in a ghastly way at Dumphy. “ Yes,” said 
Dumphy, reaching forward and coolly taking the letter out 
of Ramirez’s hand. “Yes. Seems she is going to get mar¬ 
ried,” he continued, consulting the letter. “ Going to marry 
the brother, the man in possession. That puts you all right; 
any way, the cat jumps; and it lets you out.” With the air 
of having finished the interview, Mr. Dumphy quietly re¬ 
turned the letter, followed by Ramirez’s glaring eyes, to a 
pigeon hole in his desk, and tapped his desk with his pen¬ 
holder. 

“And you—you?” gasped Ramirez hoarsely, “you?” 

“ Oh, 1 didn’t go into it a dollar. Yet it was a good 
investment. She could have made out a strong case. You 
had possession of the deed or will, hadn’t you ? There was 
no evidence of the existence of the other woman,” continued 
Mr. Dumphy, in his usually loud voice, overlooking the 
:autionary gestures of Mr. Ramirez with perfect indifference. 
‘ Hello ! How do ? ” he added to another visitor. “ 1 
vas sending you a note.” Mr. Ramirez rose. His long 
mger nails were buried in the yellow flesh of his palms, 
lis face was quite bloodless, and his lips were dry. “ What’f 


112 Gab^'iel Conroy. 

your hurry ? ” said Dumphy, looking up. Come in again ; 
there’s another matter I want you to look into, Ramirez! 
We’ve got some money out on a claim that ought to have one 
or two essential papers to make it right I daresay they’re 
lying round somewhere where you can find ’em. Draw on 
me for the expense.” Mr. Dumphy did not say this slyly, 
nor with any dark significance, but with perfect frankness. \ 
Virtually it said—“ You’re a scamp, so am I; whether or \ 
not this other man who overhears us is one likewise, it 
matters not” He took his seat again, turned to the latest 
comer, and became oblivious of his previous companion. 

Luckily for Mr. Ramirez, when he reached the street he 
had recovered the control of his features, if not his natural 
colour. At least the fog, which seemed to lend a bluish- 
grey shade to all complexions, allowed his own livid cheek 
to pass unnoticed. He walked quickly, and it appeared 
almost unconsciously, towards the water, for it was not 
until he reached the steamboat wharf that he knew where 
he was. He seemed to have taken one step from Mr. 
Dumphy’s office to the pier. There was nothing between 
these two objects in his consciousness. The interval was 
utterly annihilated. The steamboat did not leave for 
Sacramento until eight that evening, and it was only ten 
o’clock now. He had been conscious of this as he walked, 
but he could not have resisted this one movement, even if 
a futile one, towards the object of his revengeful frenzy. 
Ten hours to wait—ten hours to be passive, inactive—to 
be doing nothing ! How could he pass the time ? He 
could sharpen his knife. He could buy a new one. He 
could purchase a better pistol. He remembered passing 
a gunsmith’s shop with a display of glittering weapons in 
its window. He retraced his steps, and entered the shop, 
spending some moments in turning over the gunsmith’s 
various wares. Especially was he fascinated by a long 


An Old Pioneer of ^ 49 . 113 

broad-bladed bowie-knife. “My own make,” said the 
tradesman, with professional pride, passing a broad, leathery 
thumb along the keen edge of the blade. “It’ll split a 
half-dollar. See! ” 

He threw a half-dollar on the counter, and with a quick, 
straight, down-darting stab pierced it in halves. Mr. 
Ramirez was pleased, and professed a desire to make the 
experiment himself. But the point slipped, sending the 
half-dollar across the shop and cutting a long splintering 
furrow in the counter. “ Yer narves ain’t steady. And ye 
try too hard,” said the man, coolly. “ Thet’s the way it’s 
apt to be with you gents. Ye jest work yourself up into a 
fever ’bout a little thing like thet, ez if everything depended 
on it. Don’t make sich a big thing of it. Take it easy 
like this,” and with a quick, firm, workmanlike stroke the 
tradesman repeated the act successfully. Mr. Ramirez 
bought the knife. As the man wrapped it up in paper, he 
remarked with philosophic kindness—“ I wouldn’t try to 
do it agin this mornin’. It’s early in the day, and I’ve 
noticed thet gents ez hez been runnin’ free all night ain’t 
apt to do theirselves justice next mornin’. Take it quietly 
alone by yourself, this arternoon; don’t think you’re goin’ 
to do anythin’ big, and you’ll fetch it, sure ! ” 

When Mr. Ramirez was in the street again he looked 
at his watch. Eleven o’clock ! Only one hour gone. He 
buttoned his coat tightly over the knife in his breast pocket, 
and started on again feverishly. Twelve o’clock found him 
rambling over the sand hills near the Mission Dolores. In 
one of the by-streets he came upon a woman looking so like 
the one that filled all his thoughts, that he turned to look 
at her again with a glance so full of malevolence that she 
turned from him in terror. This circumstance, his agita¬ 
tion, and the continual dryness of his lips sent him into a 
saloon, where he drank freely, without, however, increasing 

VOL. IV. H 


114 Gabriel Conroy. 

or abating his excitement. When he returned to the 
crowded streets again he walked quickly, imagining that his 
manner was noticed by others, in such intervals as he 
snatched from the contemplation of a single intention. 
There were several ways of doing it. One was to tax her 
with her deceit and then kill her in the tempest of his in¬ 
dignation. Another and a more favourable thought was tq 
surprise her and her new accomplice—for Mr. Ramirez, 
after the manner of most jealous reasoners, never gave her 
credit for any higher motive than that she had shown to 
him—and kill them both. Another and a later idea was to 
spend the strength of his murderous passion upon the man, 
and then to enjoy her discomfiture, the failure of her plans, 
and perhaps her appeals for forgiveness. But it would still 
be two days before he could reach them. Perhaps they 
were already married. Perhaps they would be gone ! In 
all this wild, passionate, and tumultuous contemplation of 
an effect, there never had been for a single moment in his 
mind the least doubt of the adequacy of the cause. That 
he was a dupe ^—a hopeless, helpless dupe,—was sufficient. 
Since he had read the letter, his self-consciousness had 
centred upon a single thought, expressed to him in a single 
native word, “ Bobo.” It was continually before his eyes. 
He spelled it on the signs in the street. It kept up a dull 
monotonous echo in his ears. “ Bobo.” Ah ! she should 
see ! 

It was past noon, and the fog had deepened. Afar from 
the bay came the sounds of bells and whistles. If the 
steamer should not go? If she should be delayed, as 
often happened, for several hours? He would go down 
to the wharf and inquire. In the meantime, let the devil 
seize the fog ! Might the Holy St. Bartholomew damn for 
ever the cowardly dog of a captain and the cayote crew 
who would refuse to go ! He came sharply enough down 


"5 


An Old Pioneer of'^c). 

Commercial Street, and then, when opposite the Arcade 
Saloon, with the instinct that leads desperate men into 
desperate places, he entered and glared vindictively around 
him. The immense room, bright with lights and glittering 
with gilding and mirrors, seemed quiet and grave in contrast 
with the busy thoroughfare without. It was still too early 
for the usual habitu'es of the place; only a few of the long 
gambling tables were occupied. There was only a single 
monte bank “ open,” and ^o this Ramirez bent his steps with 
the peculiar predilections of his race. It so chanced that 
Mr. Jack Hamlin was temporarily in charge of the interests 
of this bank, and was dealing in a listless, perfunctory 
manner. It may be parenthetically remarked that his own 
game was faro. His present position was one of pure 
friendliness to the absent dealer, who was taking his dinner 
above stairs. Ramirez flung a piece of gold on the table 
and lost. Again he attempted fortune and lost. He lost 
the third time. Then his pent-up feelings found vent in the 
characteristic “ Cardpiba / ” Mr. Jack Hamlin looked up. 
It was not the oath, it was not the expression of ill-humour, 
both of which were common enough in Mr. Hamlin’s ex¬ 
perience, but a certain distinguishing quality in the voice 
which awoke Jack’s peculiarly retentive memory. He 
looked up, and, to borrow his own dialect, at once “ spotted ” 
the owner of the voice. He made no outward sign of his 
recognition, but quietly pursued the game. In the next 
deal Mr. Ramirez w^on! Mr. Hamlin quietly extended his 
croupe and raked dowm Mr. Ramirez’s money with the 
losers’. 

As Mr. Hamlin doubtless had fully expected, Mr. 
Ramirez rose with a passionate scream of rage. Whereat 
Mr. Hamlin coolly pushed back Mr. Ramirez’s stake and 
winnings without looking up. Leaving it upon the table, 
Ramirez leaped to the gambler s side. 


116 Gabriel Conroy. 

“ You would insult me, so ! You would ch—ee—at. 
eh ? You would take my money, so! ” he said, hoarsely, 
gesticulating passionately with one nand, while with the 
other he grasped as wildly in his breast. 

Mr. Jack Hamlin turned a pair of dark eyes on the 
speaker, and said, quietly, “ Sit down, Johnny ! ” 

With the pent-up passion of the last few hours boiling in 
his blood, with the murderous intent of the morning still 
darkling in his mind, with the passionate sense of a new 
insult stinging him to madness, Mr. Ramirez should have 
struck the gambler to the earth. Possibly that was his in¬ 
tention as he crossed to his side; possibly that was his 
conviction as he heard himself— he —Victor Ramirez ! whose 
presence in two days should strike terror to two hearts in 
One Horse Gulch !—addressed as Johnny ! But he looked 
into the eyes of Mr. Hamlin and hesitated. What he saw 
there I cannot say. They were handsome eyes, clear and 
well opened, and had been considered by several members 
of a fond and confiding sex as peculiarly arch and tender. 
But, it must be confessed, Mr. Ramirez returned to his seat 
without doing anything. 

“Ye don’t know that man,” said Mr. Hamlin to the 
two players nearest him, in a tone of the deepest confidence, 
which was, however, singularly enough, to be heard distinctly 
by every one at the table, including Ramirez. “ You don’t 
know him, but I do ! He’s a desprit character,” continued 
Mr. Hamlin, glancing at him and quietly shuffling the cards, 
“ a very desprit character ! Make your game, gentlemen 1 
Keeps a cattle ranch in Sonoma, and a private graveyard 
whar he buries his own dead. They call him the ‘ Yaller 
Hawk of Sonoma.’ He's outer sorts jest now: probably 
jest killed some one up thar, and smells blood.” Mr 
Ramirez smiled a ghastly smile, and affected to examine 
the game minutely and critically as Mr. Hamlin paused to 


A n Old Pioneer of 117 

rake in the gold. ** He’s artful—is Johnny!” continued 
Mr. Hamlin, in the interval of shuffling, “ artful and sly! 
Partikerly when he’s after blood 1 See him sittin’ thar and 
smilin’. He doesn’t want to interrupt the game. He 
knows, gentlemen, thet in five minutes from now, Jim will 
be back here and I’ll be free. Thet’s what he’s waitin’ for! 
Thet’s what’s the matter with the ‘Yaller Slaughterer of 
Sonoma ! ’ Got his knife ready in his breast, too. Done 
up in brown paper to keep it clean. He’s mighty pertikler 
’bout his weppins is Johnny. Hez a knife for every new 
man.” Ramirez rose with an attempt at jocularity, and 
pocketed his gains. Mr. Hamlin affected not to notice him 
until he was about to leave the table. “ He’s goin’ to wait 
for me outside,” he exclaimed. “ In five minutes, Johnny,” 
he called to Ramirez’s retreating figure. “ If you can’t wait. 
I’ll expect to see you at the Marysville Hotel next week, 
Room No. 95 , the next room, Johnny, the next room !” 

The Mr. Ramirez who reached the busy thoroughfare 
again was so different from the Mr. Ramirez who twenty 
minutes before had entered the Arcade that his identity 
might have easily been doubted. He did not even breathe 
in the same way; his cheek, although haggard, had resumed 
its colour; his eyes, which hitherto had been fixed and 
contemplative, had returned to their usual restless vivacity. 
With the exception that at first he walked quickly on leav¬ 
ing the saloon, and once or twice hurriedly turned to see 
if anybody were following him, his manner was totally 
changed. And this without effusion of blood, or the in¬ 
dulgence of an insatiable desire for revenge ! As I prefer 
to deal with Mr. Ramirez without affecting to know any 
more of that gentleman than he did himself, I am unable 
to explain any more clearly than he did to himself the 
reason for this change in his manner, or the utter subjection 
v)f his murderous passion. When it is remembered that for 


118 Gabriel Conroy. 

several hours he had had unlimited indulgence, without 
opposition, in his own instincts, but that for the last twenty 
minutes he had some reason to doubt their omnipotence, 
perhaps some explanation may be adduced. I only know 
that by half-past six Mr. Ramirez had settled in his mind 
that physical punishment of his enemies was not the fnost 
efficacious means of revenge, and that at half-past seven he 
had concluded not to take the Sacramento boat. And yet 
for the previous six hours I have reason to believe that Mr. 
Ramirez was as sincere a murderer as ever suffered the 
penalty of his act, or to whom circumstances had not offered 
a Mr. Hamlin to act upon a constitutional cowardice. 

Mr. Ramirez proceeded leisurely down Montgomery 
Street until he came to Pacific Street. At the corner of the 
street his way was for a moment stopped by a rattling team 
and waggon that dashed off through the fog in the direction 
of the wharf. Mr. Ramirez recognised the express and mail 
for the Sacramento boat. But Mr. Ramirez did not know 
that the express contained a letter which ran as follows— 

“Dear Madam, —Yours of the loth received, and contents noted. 
Am willing to make our services contingent upon your success. We 
believe your present course will be quite as satisfactory as the plan you 
first proposed. Would advise you not to give a personal interview to 
Mr. Ramirez, but refer him to Mr. Gabriel Conroy. Mr. Ramirez’* 
manner is such as to lead us to suppose that he might offer violence, 
unless withheld by the presence of a third party.—Yours respectfully, 

“ Peter Dumphy.” 


CHAPTER II. 

A CLOUD OF WITNESSES. 

The street into which Ramirez plunged at first sight ap* 
peared almost impassable, and but for a certain regularity 
in the parallels of irregular, oddly-built houses, its original 


A , Cloud of Witnesses. 119 

intention as a thoroughfare might have been open to grave 
doubt. It was dirty, it was muddy, it was ill-lighted; it 
was rocky and precipitous in some places, and sandy and 
monotonous in others. The grade had been changed two 
or three times, and each time apparently for the worse, but 
always with a noble disregard for the dwellings, which were 
invariably treated as an accident in the original design, or 
as obstacles to be overcome at any hazard. The near result 
of this large intent was to isolate some houses completely, 
to render others utterly inaccessible except by scaling 
ladders, and to produce the general impression that they 
were begun at the top and built down. The remoter effect 
was to place the locality under a social ban, and work a 
kind of outlawry among the inhabitants. Several of the 
houses were originally occupied by the Spanish native 
Californians, who, with the conservative instincts of their 
race, still clung to their casas after the Americans had flown 
to pastures new and less rocky and inaccessible beyond. 
Their vacant places were again filled by other native Cali¬ 
fornians, through that social law which draws the members 
of an inferior and politically degraded race into gregarious 
solitude and isolation, and the locality became known as 
the Spanish Quarter. That they lived in houses utterly 
inconsistent with their habits and tastes, that they affected 
a locality utterly foreign to their inclinations or customs, 
was not the least pathetic and grotesque element to a 
contemplative observer. 

Before, or rather beneath one of these structures, Mr. 
Ramirez stopped, and began the ascent of a long flight of 
wooden steps, that at last brought him to the foundations 
of the dwelling. Another equally long exterior staircase 
Drought him at last to the verandah or gallery of the second 
story, the first being partly hidden by an embankment 
Here Mr. Ramirez discovered another flight of narrower 


120 Gabriel Conroy. 

steps leading down to a platform before the front door. 
It was open. In the hall-way two or three dark-faced men 
were lounging, smoking dgaritoSy and enjoying, in spite of 
the fog, the apparently unseasonable negligk of shirt sleeves 
and no collars. At the open front windows of the parlour 
two or three women were sitting, clad in the lightest and 
whitest of flounced muslin skirts, with heavy shawls over 
their heads and shoulders, as if summer had stopped at 
their waists, like an equator. 

' The house was feebly lighted, or rather the gloom of 
yellowish-browned walls and dark furniture, from which all 
lustre and polish had been smoked, made it seem darker. 
Nearly every room and all the piazzas were dim with the 
yellow haze of burning cigaritos. There were light brown 
stains on the shirt sleeves of the men, there were yellowish 
streaks on the otherwise spotless skirts of the women ; every 
masculine and feminine forefinger and thumb was steeped 
to its first joint with yellow. The fumes of burnt paper 
and tobacco permeated the whole house like some religious 
incense, through which occasionally struggled an inspiration 
of red peppers and garlic. 

Two or three of the loungers addressed Ramirez in terms 
of grave recognition. One of the women—the stoutest— 
appeared at the doorway, holding her shawl tightly over her 
shoulders with one hand, as if to conceal a dangerous dis' 
habille above the waist, and playfully shaking a black fan 
at the young man with the other hand, applied to hin^ 
the various epithets of “ Ingrate,” “Traitor,” and “ Judas,’ 
with great vivacity and volubility. Then she faced him 
coquettishly. “ And after so long, whence now, thou little 
blackguard ? ” 

“ It is of business, my heart and soul,” exclaimed Ramirez, 
with hasty and somewhat perfunctory gallantry. “ Who is 
tbove ? “ Those who testify.” 


A Cloud of Witnesses. 121 

"And Don Pedro?” 

" He is there, and the Sehor Perkins.” 

“ Good. I will go on after a little,” he nodded apolo* 
getically, as he hastily ascended the staircase. On the first 
landing above he paused, turned doubtfully toward the 
nearest door, and knocked hesitatingly. There was no 
response. Ramirez knocked again more sharply and 
decidedly. This resulted in a quick rattling of the lock, 
the sudden opening of the door, and the abrupt appearance 
of a man in ragged alpaca coat and frayed trousers. He 

stared fiercely at Ramirez, said in English, “ What in h-! 

next door ! ” and as abruptly slammed the door in Ramirez’s 
face. Ramirez entered hastily the room indicated by the 
savage stranger, and was at once greeted by a dense cloud 
of smoke and the sound of welcoming voices. 

Around a long table covered with quaint-looking legal 
papers, maps, and parchments, a half-dozen men were 
seated. The greater number were past the middle age, 
dark-featured and grizzle-haired, and one, whose wrinkled 
face was the colour and texture of redwood bark, was bowed 
with decrepitude. 

“ He had one hundred and two years day before yester¬ 
day. He is the principal witness to Micheltorrena’s signa¬ 
ture in the Castro claim,” exclaimed Don Pedro. 

“ Is he able to remember ? ” asked Ramirez. 

“ Who knows ? ” said Don Pedro, shrugging his shoulder. 
“ He will swear; it is enough ! ” 

“ What animal have we in the next room ? ” asked Ramirez. 
“ Is it wolf or bear ? ” 

“The Senor Perkins,” said Don Pedro. 

Why is he ? ’' 

“ He translates.” 

Here Ramirez related, with some vehemence, how he 
mistook the room, and the stranger’s brusque salutation. 



122 Gabriel Conroy, 

The company listened attentively and even respectfully. 
An American audience would have laughed The present 
company did not alter their serious demeanour; a breach 
of politeness to a stranger was a matter of grave importance 
even to these doubtful characters. Don Pedro explained— 

‘‘Ah, so it is believed that God has visited him here.” 
He tapped his forehead. “ He is not of their country 
fashion at all. He has punctuality, he has secrecy, he has 
the habitude. When strikes the clock three he is here; 
when it strikes nine he is gone. Six hours to work in 
that room ! Ah, heavens ! The quantity of work—it is 
astounding! Folios ! Volumes ! Good ! it is done. 
Punctually at nine of the night he takes up a paper left on 
his desk by his padrone^ in which is enwrapped ten dollars 
—the golden eagle, and he departs for that day. They tell 
to me that five dollars is gone at the gambling table, but no 
more ! then five dollars for subsistence—always the same. 
Always ! Always ! He is a scholar—so profound, so ad¬ 
mirable ! He has the Spanish, the French, perfect. He is 
worth his weight in gold to the lawyers—you understand— 
but they cannot use him. To them he says—‘ I translate, 
lies or what not ! Who knows ? I care not—but no more.* 
He is wonderful! ” 

The allusion to the gaming-table revived Victor’s recollec 
tion, and his intention in his present visit. “ Thou hast 
told me, Don Pedro,” he said, lowering his voice in confi¬ 
dence, “how much is fashioned the testimony of the wit¬ 
nesses in regard of the old land grants by the Governors 
and Alcaldes. Good. Is it so ? ” 

Don Pedro glanced around the room. “ Of those that are 
here to-night five will swear as they are prepared by me— 
you comprehend—and there is a Governor, a Military 
Secretary, an Alcalde, a Comandante, and saints preserve 
us ! an Archbishop ! They are respectable Caballeros ; but 


123 


A Cloud of Witnesses. 

they have been robbed, you comprehend, by the Americanos, 
VVhat matters? They have been taught a lesson. They 
will get the best price for their memory. Eh ? They will 
sell it where it pays best. Believe me, Victor; it is so.” 

“ Good,” said Victor. “Listen; if there was a man—a 
brigand, a devil—an American !—who had extorted from 
Pico a grant—you comprehend—a grant, formal, and regu¬ 
lar, and recorded—accepted of the Land Commission— 
and some one, eh ?—even myself, should say to you it is 
all wrong, my friend, my brother—ah ! ” 

“ From Pico ? ” asked Don Pedro. 

from Pico, in ’ 47 ,” responded Victor,—“a grant.” 
Don Pedro rose, opened a secretary in the corner, and 
took out some badly-printed, yellowish blanks, with a seal 
in the right hand lower corner. 

“ Custom House paper from Monterey,” explained Don 
Pedro, “ blank with Governor Pico’s signature and rubric. 
Comprehendest thou, Victor, my friend? A second grant 
is simple enough ! ” 

Victor’s eyes sparkled. 

“ But two for the same land, my brother ? ” 

Don Pedro shrugged his shoulders, and rolled a fresh 
cigarito. 

“ There are two for nearly every grant of his late Excel¬ 
lency. Art thou certain, my brave friend, there are not three 
to this of which thou speakest? If there be but one—Holy 
Mother! it is nothing. Surely the land has no value. 
Where is this modest property ? How many leagues square ? 
Come, we will retire in this room, and thou mayest talk un¬ 
disturbed. There is excellent aguardiente too, my Victor, 
come,” and Don Pedro rose, conducted Victor into a 
smaller apartment, and closed the door. 

Nearly an hour elapsed. During that interval the sound 
of Victor’s voice, raised in passionate recital, might have 


124 Gabriel Conroy. 

been heard by the occupants of the larger room but that 
they were completely involved in their own smoky atmo¬ 
sphere, and were perhaps politely oblivious of the stranger’s 
business. They chatted, compared notes, and examined 
legal documents with the excited and pleased curiosity of 
men to whom business and the present importance of its 
results was a novelty. At a few minutes before nine Don 
Pedro reappeared with Victor. I grieve to say that either 
from the reaction of the intense excitement of the morning, 
from the active sympathy of his friend, or from the equally 
soothing anodyne of aguardiente^ he was somewhat inco¬ 
herent, inter]ectional, and effusive. The effect of excessive 
stimulation on passionate natures like Victor’s is to render 
them either maudlin or affectionate. Mr. Ramirez was 
both. He demanded with tears in his eyes to be led to 
the ladies. He would seek in the company of Manuela, 
the stout female before introduced to the reader, that sym¬ 
pathy which an injured, deceived, and confiding nature like 
his own so deeply craved. 

On the staircase he ran against a stranger, precise, digni¬ 
fied, accurately clothed and fitted—the “ Senor Perkins’* 
just released from his slavery, a very different person from 
the one accidentally disclosed to him an hour before, on 
his probable way to the gaming table, and his habitual en¬ 
joyment on the evening of the day. In his maudlin condi¬ 
tion, Victor would have fain exchanged views with him in 
regard to the general deceitfulness of the fair, and the mis¬ 
fortunes that attend a sincere passion, but Don Pedro 
hurried him below into the parlour, and out of the reach of 
the serenely contemptuous observation of the Senor Perkins’s 
eye Once in the parlour, and in the presence of the coquet¬ 
tish Manuela, who was still closely shawled, as if yet uncer¬ 
tain and doubtful in regard to the propriety of her garments 
above the waist, Victor, after a few vague remarks upon the 


125 


The Charming Mrs. Sepulvida. 

general inability of the sex to understand a nature so pro¬ 
foundly deep and so wildly passionate as his own, even¬ 
tually succumbed in a large black haircloth arm-chair, and 
became helplessly and hopelessly comatose. 

“ We must find a bed here for him to-night,” said the 
sympathising, but practical Manuela; “ he is not fit, poor 
imbecile, to be sent to his hotel. Mother of God ! what is 
this?” 

In lifting him out of the chair into which he had subsided 
with a fatal tendency to slide to the floor, unless held by 
main force, something had fallen from his breast pocket, 
and Manuela had picked it up. It was the bowie-knife he 
had purchased that morning. 

** Ah ! ” said Manuela, “ desperate little brigand : he has 
been among the Americanos ! Look, my uncle 1 ” 

Don Pedro took the weapon quietly from the brown 
hands of Manuela and examined it coolly. 

“ It is new, my niece,” he responded, with a slight shrug 
of his shoulders. “ The gloss is still upon its blade. We 
will take him to bed.” 


chapter III. 

THE CHARMING MRS. SEPULVIDA. 

If there was a spot on earth of which the usual dead mon¬ 
otony of the Californian seasons seemed a perfectly consis¬ 
tent and natural expression, that spot was the ancient and 
time-honoured pueblo and Mission of the blessed St. Anthony. 
The changeless, cloudless, expressionless skies of summer 
seemed to symbolise that aristocratic conservatism which 
repelled all innovation, and was its distinguishing mark. 
The stranger who rode into the pueblo^ in his own convey¬ 
ance,—for the instincts of San Antonio refused to sanction 


126 Gabriel Conroy, 

the introduction of a stage-coach or diligence that might 
bring into the town irresponsible and vagabond travellers,—• 
read in the faces of the idle, lounging peons the fact that 
the great rancheros who occupied the outlying grants had 
refused to sell their lands, long before he entered the one 
short walled street and open plaza, and found that he was 
in a town where there was no hotel or tavern, and that 
he was dependent entirely upon the hospitality of some 
coui>t^ous resident for a meal or a night’s lodging. 

As he drew rein in the courtyard of the first large adobe 
dwelling, and received the grave welcome of a strange but 
kindly face, he saw around him everywhere the past 
unchanged. The sun shone as brightly and fiercely on the 
long red tiles of the low roofs, that looked as if they had 
been thatched with longitudinal slips of cinnamon, even as 
it had shone for the last hundred years ; the gaunt wolf-like 
dogs ran out and barked at him as their fathers and mothers 
had barked at the preceding stranger of twenty years before. 
There were the few wild half-broken mustangs tethered by 
strong riatas before the verandah of the long low Fonda, 
with the sunlight glittering on their silver trappings; there 
were the broad, blank expanses of whitewashed adobe walls, 
as barren and guiltless of record as the uneventful days, as 
monotonous and expressionless as the staring sky above; 
there were the white, dome-shaped towers of the Mission 
rising above the green of olives and pear-trees, twisted, 
gnarled, and knotted with the rheumatism of age; there 
was the unchanged strip of narrow white beach, and be¬ 
yond, the sea—vast, illimitable, and always the same. The 
steamers that crept slowly up the darkening coast line were 
something remote, unreal, and phantasmal; since the Philip¬ 
pine galleon had left its bleached and broken ribs in the 
sand in 1640, no vessel had, in the memory of man, dropped 
tnchor in the open roadstead below the curving Point of 


127 


The Charming Mrs. Sepulvida. 

Pines, and the white walls, and dismounted bronze cannon 
of the Presidio, that looked blankly and hopelessly sea¬ 
ward. 

For all this, the pueblo of ^an Antonio was the cynosure 
of the covetous American eye. Its vast leagues of fertile 
soil, its countless herds of cattle, the semi-tropical luxuri¬ 
ance of its vegetation, the salubrity of its climate, and the 
existence of miraculous mineral springs, were at once a 
temptation and an exasperation to greedy speculators of 
San Francisco. Happily for San Antonio, its square leagues 
were held by only a few of the wealthiest native gentry. 
The ranchos of the “ Bear,” of the “ Holy Fisherman,” of 
the “ Blessed Trinity,” comprised all of the outlying lands, 
and their titles were patented and secured to their native 
owners in the earlier days of the American occupation, 
while their comparative remoteness from the populous centres 
had protected them from the advances of foreign cupidity. 
But one American had ever entered upon the possession 
and enjoyment of this Californian Arcadia, and that was 
the widow of Don Josd Sepulvida. Eighteen months ago 
the excellent Sepulvida had died at the age of eighty-four, 
and left his charming young American wife the sole mistress 
of his vast estate. Attractive, of a pleasant, social tempera¬ 
ment, that the Donna Maria should eventually bestow her 
hand and the estate upon some losel Americano^ who would 
bring ruin in the hollow disguise of “ improvements ” to the 
established and conservative life of San Antonio, was an 
event to be expected, feared, and, if possible, estopped by 
fasting and prayer. 

When the Donna Maria returned from a month’s visit to 
San Francisco after her year’s widowhood, alone, and to all 
appearances as yet unattached, it is said that a Te Deum was 
sung at the Mission church. The possible defection of the 
widow became still more important to San Antonio, when 


128 Gabriel Conroy, 

it was remembered that the largest estate in the valley, the 
“Rancho of the Holy Trinity,” was held by another 
member of this deceitful sex—the alleged natural half-breed 
daughter of a deceased Governor—but happily preserved 
from the possible fate of the widow by religious preoccupa¬ 
tion and the habits of a recluse. That the irony of Provi¬ 
dence should leave the fate and future of San Antonio so 
largely dependent upon the results of levity, and the caprice 
of a susceptible sex, gave a sombre tinge to the gossip of the 
little pueblo —if the grave, decorous discussion of Senores 
and Senoras could deserve that name. Nevertheless it was 
believed by the more devout that a miraculous interposition 
would eventually save San Antonio from the Americanos 
and destruction, and it was alleged that the patron saint, 
himself accomplished in the art of resisting a peculiar form 
of temptation, would not scruple to oppose personally any 
undue weakness of vanity or the flesh in helpless widowhood. 
Yet, even the most devout and trustful believers, as they 
slyly slipped aside veil or 7 nanta^ to peep furtively at the 
Donna Maria entering chapel, in the heathenish abomina¬ 
tions of a Parisian dress and bonnet, and a face rosy with 
self-consciousness and innocent satisfaction, felt their hearts 
sink within them, and turned their eyes in mute supplication 
to the gaunt, austere patron saint pictured on the chancel 
wall above them, who, clutching a skull and crucifix as if 
for support, seemed to glare upon the pretty stranger with 
some trepidation and a possible doubt of his being able to 
resist the newer temptation. 

As far as was consistent with Spanish courtesy, the 
Donna Maria was subject to a certain mild espionage. It 
was even hinted by some of the more conservative that a 
duenna was absolutely essential to the proper decorum of a 
iady representing such large social interests as the widow 
Sepulvida, although certain husbands, who had already 


129 


The Charming Mrs. Sepulvida. 

suffered from the imperfect protection of this safeguard, 
offered some objection. But the pretty widow, when this 
proposition was gravely offered by her ghostly confessor, 
only shook her head and laughed. “ A husband is the best 
duenna^ Father Felipe,” she said, archly, and the conversa¬ 
tion ended. 

Perhaps it was as well that the gossips of San Antonio did 
not know how imminent was their danger, or how closely 
imperilled were the vast social interests of the pueblo on 
/ the 3rd day of June 1854. 

It was a bright, clear morning—so clear that the distant 
peaks of the San Bruno mountains seemed to have en¬ 
croached upon the San Antonio valley overnight—so clear 
that the horizon line of the vast Pacific seemed to take in 
half the globe beyond. It was a morning, cold, hard, and 
material as granite, yet with a certain mica sparkle in its 
quality—a morning full of practical animal life, in which 
bodily exercise was absolutely essential to its perfect under¬ 
standing and enjoyment. It was scarcely to be wondered 
that the Donna Maria Sepulvida, who was returning from 
a visit to her steward and major-domo, attended by a single 
vaquero., should have thrown the reins forward on the neck 
of her yellow mare, “ Tita,” and dashed at a wild gallcp 
down the white strip of beach that curved from the garden 
wall of the Mission to the Point of Pines, a league beyond. 
“ Concho,” the venerable vaquero^ after vainly endeavour¬ 
ing to keep pace with his mistress’s fiery steed, and still 
more capricious fancy, shrugged his shoulders, and sub¬ 
sided into a trot, and was soon lost among the shifting 
sand dunes. Completely carried away by the exhilarating 
air and intoxication of the exercise, the Donna Maria— 
with her brown hair shaken loose from the confinement of 
her little velvet hat, the whole of a pretty foot, and at times, 
I fear, part of a symmetrical ankle visible below the flying 

VOL. IV. 1 


130 Gabriel Conroy• 

folds of her grey riding-skirt, flecked here and there with 
the racing spume of those Homeric seas—at last reached 
the Point of Pines which defined the limits of the penin¬ 
sula. 

But when the gentle Mistress Sepulvida was within a 
hundred yards of the Point she expected to round, she saw 
with some chagrin that the tide was up, and that each 
dash of the breaking seas sent a thin, reaching film of shin¬ 
ing water up to the very roots of the pines. To her still 
further discomfiture, she saw also that a smart-looking 
cavalier had likewise reined in his horse on the other side 
of the Point, and was evidently watching her movements 
with great interest, and, as she feared, with some amusement. 
To go back would be to be followed by this stranger, and 
to meet the cynical but respectful observation of Concho ; 
to go forward, at the worst, could only be a slight wetting, 
and a canter beyond the reach of observation of the 
stranger, who could not in decency turn back after her. 
All this Donna Maria saw with the swiftness of feminine 
intuition, and, without apparently any hesitation in her face 
of her intent, dashed into the surf below the Point. 

Alas for feminine logic ! Mistress Sepulvida’s reasoning 
was perfect, but her premises were wrong. Tita’s first dash 
was a brave one, and carried her half round the Point, the 
next was a simple flounder; the next struggle sunk her to 
her knees, the next to her haunches. She was in a quick¬ 
sand ! 

“ Let the horse go. Don’t struggle ! Take the end of 
your riata. Throw yourself flat on the next wave, and let 
it take you out to sea ! ” 

Donna Maria mechanically loosed the coil of hair rope 
which hung over the pommel of her saddle. Then she 
looked around in the direction of the voice. But she saw 
only a riderless horse, moving slowly along the Point 


The Charming Mrs. Sepulvida, 13! 

“Quick! Now then!” The voice was seaward now; 
where, to her frightened fancy, some one appeared to be 
swimming. Donna Maria hesitated no longer; with the 
recoil of the next wave, she threw herself forward and was 
carried floating a few yards, and dropped again on the 
treacherous sand. 

“ Don’t move, but keep your grip on the riata!” 

The next wave would have carried her back, but she 
began to comprehend, and, assisted by the yielding sand, 
held her own and her breath until the under-tow sucked 
her a few yards seaward; the sand was firmer now; she 
floated a few yards farther, when her arm was seized; she 
was conscious of being impelled swiftly through the water, 
of being dragged out of the surge, of all her back hair 
coming down, that she had left her boots behind her in the 
quicksand, that her rescuer was a stranger, and a young 
man—and then she fainted. 

When she opened her brown eyes again she was lying on 
the dry sand beyond the Point, and the young man was on 
the beach below her, holding both the horses—his own and 
Tita! 

“I took the opportunity of getting your horse out. 
Relieved of your weight, and loosened by the tide, he got 
his foot over the riata, and Charley and I pulled him out. 
If I am not mistaken, this is Mrs. Sepulvida ? ” 

Donna Maria assented in surprise. 

“And I imagine this is your man coming to look for you.” 
He pointed to Concho, who was slowly making his way 
among the sand dunes towards the Point. “ Let me assist 
you on your horse again. He need not know—nobody 
ueed know—the extent of your disaster.” 

Donna Maria, still bewildered, permitted herself to be 
assisted to her saddle again, despite the consequent terrible 
revelation of her shoeless feet Then she became conscious 


132 


Gabriel Conroy- 

that she had not thanked her deliverer, and proceeded to do 
so with such embarrassment that the' stranger’s laughing 
interruption was a positive relief. 

“You would thank me better if you were to set off in a 
swinging gallop over those sun-baked, oven-like sand-hills, 
and so stave off a chill ! For the rest, I am Mr. Poinsett, 
one of your late husband’s legal advisers, here on business 
that will most likely bring us together—I trust much more 
pleasantly to you than this. Good morning ! ” 

He had already mounted his horse, and was lifting his 
hat. Donna Maria was not a very clever woman, but she 
was bright enough to see that his business hrusquerie was 
either the concealment of a man shy of women, or the 
impertinence of one too familiar with them. In either case 
it was to be resented. 

How did she do it ? Ah me ! She took the most favour¬ 
able hypothesis. She pouted, I regret to say. Then she 
said— 

“ It was all your fault ! ” 

“ How?” 

“ Why, if you hadn’t stood there, looking at me and criti¬ 
cising, I shouldn’t have tried to go round.” 

With this Parthian arrow she dashed off, leaving her 
rescuer halting between a bow and a smile. 


CHAPTER IV. 

FATHER FELIPE. 

When Arthur Poinsett, after an hour’s rapid riding over the 
scorching sand-hills, finally drew up at the door of the 
Mission Refectory, he had so far profited by his own advice 
to Donna Maria as to be quite dry, and to exhibit very little 
external trace of his late adventure. It is more remarkable 


Father Felipe, 133 

perhaps that there was very little internal evidence either. 
No one who did not know the peculiar self-sufficiency of 
Poinsett’s individuality would be able to understand the 
singular mental and moral adjustment of a man keenly alive 
to all new and present impressions, and yet able to dismiss 
them entirely, without a sense of responsibility or inconsis¬ 
tency. That Poinsett thought twice of the woman he had 
rescued—that he ever reflected again on the possibilities 
or natural logic of his act—during his ride, no one who 
thoroughly knew him would believe. When he first saw 
Mrs. Sepulvida at the Point of Pines, he was considering the 
possible evils or advantages of a change in the conservative 
element of San Antonio ; when he left her, he returned to the 
subject again, and it fully occupied his thoughts until Father 
Felipe stood before him in the door of the refectory. I do 
not mean to say that he at all ignored a certain sense of 
self-gratulation in the act, but I wish to convey the idea that 
all other considerations were subordinate to this sense. 
And possibly also the feeling, unexpressed, however, by 
any look or manner, that if he was satisfied, everybody else 
ought to be. 

If Donna Maria had thought his general address a little 
too irreverent, she would have been surprised at his greeting 
with Father Felipe. His whole manner was changed to one 
of courteous and even reverential consideration, of a boyish 
faith and trustfulness, of perfect confidence and self-forget¬ 
fulness, and moreover was perfectly sincere. She would 
have been more surprised to have noted that the object of 
Arthur’s earnestness was an old man, and that beyond a 
certain gentle and courteous manner and refined bearing, 
he was unpicturesque and odd-fashioned in dress, snuffy in 
the sleeves, and possessed and inhabited a pair of shoes so 
large, shapeless, and inconsistent with the usual requirements 
of that article as to be grotesque. 


134 


Gabriel Conroy. 

It was evident that Arthur’s manner had previously pre« 
disposed the old man in his favour. ^He held out two soft 
Drown hands to the young man, addressed him with a plea¬ 
sant smile as “ My son,” and welcomed him to the Mission. 

“ And why not this visit before ? ” asked Father Felipe, 
when they were seated upon the little verandah that over¬ 
looked the Mission garden, before their chocolate and 
cigaritos. 

“I did not know I was coming until the day before 
yesterday. It seems that some new grants of the old ex- 
Governor’s have been discovered, and that a patent is to be 
applied for. My partners being busy, I was deputed to come 
here and look up the matter. To tell the truth, I was glad 
of an excuse to see our fair client, or, at least, be disap¬ 
pointed, as my partners have been, in obtaining a glimpse of 
the mysterious Donna Dolores.” 

“ Ah, my dear Don Arturo,” said the Padre, with a slightly 
deprecatory movement of his brown hands, “ I fear you 
will be no more fortunate than others. It is a penitential 
week with the poor child, and at such times she refuses to 
see any one, even on business. Believe me, my dear boy, 
you, like the others—more than the others—permit your 
imagination to run away with your judgment. Donna Dolores* 
concealment of her face is not to heighten or tempt the 
masculine curiosity, but alas !—poor child—is only to hide 
the heathenish tattooings that deface her cheek. You know 
she is a half-breed. Believe me, you are all wrong. It is 
foolish, perhaps—vanity—who knows ? but she is a woman 
—what would you ? ” continued the sagacious Padre, 
emphasising the substantive with a slight shrug worthy of 
his patron saint. 

“ But they say, for all that, she is very beautiful,” con¬ 
tinued Arthur, with that mischievousness which was his 
habitual method of entertaining the earnestness of others 


Father Felipe. 135 

and which he could not entirely forego, even with the 
Padre. 

“ So ! so ! Don Arturo—it is idle gossip I ” said Father 
Felipe, impatiently,—“ a brown Indian girl with a cheek as 
tawny as the summer fields.” 

Arthur made a grimace that might have been either of 
assent or deprecation. 

“ Well, I suppose this means that I am to look over the 
papers withalone. Bueno! Have them out, and let 
us get over this business as soon as possible.” 

“ Poco said Father Felipe, with a smile. Then 

more gravely, “ But what is this ? You do not seem to 
have that interest in your profession that one might expect 
of the rising young advocate—the junior partner of the 
great firm you represent. Your heart is not in your work— 
eh?” 

Arthur laughed. 

** Why not ? It is as good as any.” 

“But to right the oppressed? To do justice to the 
unjustly accused, eh ? To redress wrongs—ah, my son ! 
that is noble. That, Don Arturo—it is that has made you 
and your colleagues dear to me—dear to those who have 
been the helpless victims of your courts—your corregidoresJ* 

“ Yes, yes,” interrupted Arthur, hastily, shedding the 
Father’s praise with an habitual deft ease that was not so 
much the result of modesty as a certain conscious pride that 
resented any imperfect tribute. “ Yes, I suppose it pays as 
well, if not better, in the long rua ‘ Honesty is the best 
policy,’ as our earliest philosophers say.” 

“ Pardon ? ” queried the Padre. 

Arthur, intensely amused, made a purposely severe and 
literal translation of Franklin’s famous apothegm, and then 
watched Father Felipe raise his eyes and hands to the 
celling in pious protest and mute consternation. 


136 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ And these are your American | ethics ? ” he said at last 

“ They are, and in conjunction with manifest destiny, 
and the star of Empire, they have brought us here, and— 
have given me the honour of your acquaintance,” said 
Arthur in English. 

Father Felipe looked at his friend in hopeless bewilder¬ 
ment. Arthur instantly became respectful and Spanish. 
To change the subject and relieve the old man’s evident 
embarrassment, he at once plunged into a humorous descrip¬ 
tion of his adventure of the morning. The diversion was 
only partially successful. Father Felipe became at once 
interested, but did not laugh. When the young man had 
concluded he approached him, and laying his soft hand on 
Arthur’s curls, turned his face upward toward him with a 
parental gesture that was at once habitual and professional, 
and said— 

“ Look at me here. I am an old man, Don Arturo. 
Pardon me if I think I have some advice to give you that 
may be worthy your hearing. Listen, then ! You are one 
of those men capable of peculiarly affecting and being 
affected by women. So ! Pardon,” he continued, gently, 
as a slight flush rose into Arthur’s cheek, despite the smile 
that came as quickly to his face. “ Is it not so ? Be not 
ashamed, Don Arturo ! It is not here,” he added, with a 
poetical gesture toward the wall of the refectory, where 
hung the painted effigy of the blessed St. Anthony; “ it is 
not here that I would undervalue or speak lightly of their 
influence. The widow is rich, eh?—handsome, eh? impul¬ 
sive ? You have no heart in the profession you have 
chosen. What then ? You have some in the instincts— 
what shall I say—the accomplishments and graces you 
have not considered worthy of a practical end ! You are a 
natural lover. Pardon ! You have the four S’s—‘ Sdno^ 
KolOf solicitor y secreto.^ Good ! Take an old man’s advice, 


Father Felipe, 137 

and make good use of them. Turn your weaknesses—eh ? 
perhaps it is too strong a word !—the frivolities and vanities 
of your youth into a power for your old age ! Eh ? ” 

Arthur smiled a superior smile. He was thinking of the 
horror with which the old man had received the axiom he 
had recently quoted. He threw himself back in his chair 
In an attitude of burlesque sentiment, and said, with 
simulated heroics— 

“ But what, O my Father! what if a devoted, exhausting 
passion for somebody else already filled my heart ? You 
would not advise me to be false to that? Perish the 
thought! ” 

Father Felipe did not smile. A peculiar expression 
passed over his broad, brown, smoothly shaven face, and 
the habitual look of childlike simplicity and deferential 
courtesy faded from it. He turned his small black eyes 
on Arthur, and said— 

“ Do you think you are capable of such a passion, my 
son ? Have you had an attachment that was superior to 
novelty or self-interest ? ” 

Arthur rose a little stiffly. 

“ As we are talking of one of my clients and one of your 
parishioners, are we not getting a little too serious. Father ? 
At all events, save me from assuming a bashful attitude 
towards the lady with whom I am to have a business inter¬ 
view to-morrow. And now about the papers, Father,^* 
continued Arthur, recovering his former ease. “ I suppose 
the invisible fair one has supplied you with all the necessary 
documents and the fullest material for a brief. Go on. I 
am all attention.” 

‘'You are wrong again, son,” said Father Felipe. “It is 
a matter in which she has shown even mbre than her usual 
disinclination to talk. I believe but for my interference, 
she would have even refused .to press the claim. As it is, 


138 Gabriel Conroy, 

I imagine she wishes to make ^ome compromise with the 
thief—pardon me !—the what do you say ? eh ? the pre-emp- 
tor ! But I have nothing to do with it. All the papers, all 
the facts are in the possession of your friend, Mrs. Sepulvida 
You are to see her. Believe me, my friend, if you have 
been disappointed in not finding your Indian client, you 
will have a charming substitute—and one of your own race 
and colour—in the Donna Maria. Forget, if you can, what 
I have said—but you will not. Ah, Don Arturo ! I know 
you better than yourself! Come. Let us walk in the 
garden. You have not seen the vines. I have a new 
variety of grape since you were here before.” 

“I find nothing better than the old Mission grape, 
Father,” said Arthur, as they passed down the branching 
avenue of olives. 

“ Ah I Yet the aborigines knew it not, and only valued 
it when found wild, for the colouring matter contained in 
its skin. From this, with some mordant that still remains 
a secret with them, they made a dye to stain their bodies 
and heighten their copper hue. You are not listening, 
Don Arturo, yet it should interest you, for it is the colour 
of your mysterious client, the Donna Dolores.” 

% Thus chatting, and pointing out the various objects that 
might interest Arthur, from the overflowing boughs of a 
venerable fig tree to the crack made in the adobe wall of 
the church by the last earthquake. Father Felipe, with char¬ 
acteristic courteous formality, led his young friend through 
the ancient garden of the Mission. By degrees, the former 
ease and mutual confidence of the two friends returned, 
and by the time that Father Felipe excused himself for a 
few moments to attend to certain domestic arrangements 
on behalf of his new guest perfect sympathy had been 
restored. 

Left to himself, Arthur strolled back until opposite the 


Father Felipe. 139 

•pen chancel door of the church. Here he paused, and, 
in obedience to a sudden impulse, entered. The old church 
was unchanged—like all things in San Antonio—since the 
last hundred years; perhaps there was little about it that 
Arthur had not seen at the other Missions. There were the 
old rafters painted in barbaric splendour of red and brown 
stripes; there were the hideous, waxen, glass-eyed saints, 
leaning forward helplessly and rigidly from their niches; 
there was the Virgin Mary in a white dress and satin slippers, 
carrying the infant Saviour in the opulence of lace long- 
clothes j there was the Magdalen in the fashionable costume 
of a Spanish lady of the last century. There was the usual 
quantity of bad pictures; the portrait, full length, of 
the patron saint himself, so hideously and gratuitously 
old and ugly that his temptation by any self-respecting 
woman appeared more miraculous than his resistance; 
the usual martyrdoms in terrible realism; the usual “ Last 
Judgments” in frightful accuracy of detail. 

But there was one picture under the nave which attracted 
Arthur’s listless eyes. It was a fanciful representation of 
Junipero Serra preaching to the heathen. I am afraid that 
it was not the figure of that most admirable and heroic 
missionary which drew Arthur’s gaze; I am quite certain 
that it was not the moral sentiment of the subject, but 
i-ather the slim, graceful, girlish, half-nude figure of one of 
the Indian converts who knelt at Father Junipero Serra’s 
feet, in childlike but touching awe and contrition. There 
was such a depth of penitential supplication in the young 
girl’s eyes—a penitence so pathetically inconsistent with 
tie absolute virgin innocence and helplessness of the 
exquisite little figure, that Arthur felt his heart beat quickly 
as he gazed. He turned quickly to the other picture— 
look where he would, the eyes of the little acolyte seemed 
to follow and subdue him. 


- ^ 

140 Gabriel Conroy, 

I think I have already intimated that his was not a icv« 
erential nature. With a quick imagination and great poetic 
sensibility nevertheless, the evident intent of the picture, or 
even the sentiment of the place, did not touch his heart or 
brain. But he still half-unconsciously dropped into a seat, 
and, leaning both arms over the screen before him, bowed 
his head against the oaken panel. A soft hand laid upon his 
shoulder suddenly aroused him. 

He looked up sharply and met the eyes of the Padre look¬ 
ing down on him with a tenderness that both touched and 
exasperated him. 

“ Pardon ! ” said Padre Felipe, gently. “ I have broken 
in upon your thoughts, child ! ” 

A little more brusquely than was his habit with the 
Padre, Arthur explained that he had been studying up a 
difficult case. 

“ So ! ” said the Padre, softly, in response. ‘‘ With tears 
in your eyes, Don Arturo ? Not so ! ” he added to himself, 
as he drew the young man’s arm in his own and the two 
passed slowly out once more into the sunlight 


" CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH THE DONNA MARIA MAKES AN IMPRESSION. 

The Rancho of the Blessed Fisherman looked seaward as 
became its title. If the founder of the rancho had shown a 
religious taste in the selection of the site of the dwelling, his 
charming widow had certainly shown equal practical taste, 
and indeed a profitable availing of some advantages that 
the founder did not contemplate, in the adornment of the 
house. The low-walled square adobe dwelling had been re¬ 
lieved of much of its hard practical outline by several femh 
nine additions and suggestions. The tiled roof had been 


Donna Maria makes an Impression, 141 

carried over a very broad verandah, supported by vine-clad 
columns, and the lounging corridor had been, in defiance of 
all Spanish custom, transferred from the inside of the house 
to the outside. The interior courtyard no longer existed. 
The sombreness of the heavy Mexican architecture was re¬ 
lieved by bright French chintzes, delicate lace curtains, and 
fresh-coloured hangings. The broad verandah was filled 
with the latest novelties of Chinese bamboo chairs and 
settees, and a striped Venetian awning shaded the glare of 
the seaward front. Nevertheless, Donna Maria, out of re¬ 
spect to the local opinion, which regarded these changes as 
ominous of, if not a symbolical putting off the weeds of 
widowhood, still clung to a few of the local traditions. It 
is true that a piano occupied one side of her drawing-room, 
but a harp stood in the corner. If a freshly-cut novel lay 
open on the piano, a breviary was conspicuous on the marble 
centre-table. If, on the mantel, an elaborate French clock 
with bronze shepherdesses trifled with Time, on the wall 
above it an iron crucifix spoke of Eternity. 

Mrs. Sepulvida was at home that morning expecting a 
guest. She w’as lying in a Manilla hammock, swung be¬ 
tween two posts of the verandah, with her face partially hid¬ 
den by the netting, and the toe of a little shoe just peeping 
beyond. Not that Donna Maria expected to receive her 
guest thus ; on the contrary, she had given orders to her 
servants that the moment a stranger caballero appeared on 
the road she was to be apprised of the fact. For I grieve 
to say that, far from taking Arthur’s advice, the details of 
the adventure at the Point of Pines had been imparted by 
her own lips to most of her female friends, and even to the 
domestics of her household. In the earlier stages of a 
woman’s interest in a man ^he is apt to be exceedingly com¬ 
municative ; it is only when she becomes f-’lly aware of the 
gravity of the stake involved that she begins to hedge be- 


142 


Gabriel Conroy. 

fore the public. The morning after her adventure Donn* 
Maria was innocently full of its hero and unreservedly 
voluble. 

I have forgotten whether I have described her. Cer¬ 
tainly I could not have a better opportunity than the 
present. In the hammock she looked a little smaller, as 
women are apt to when their length is rigidly defined. She 
had the average quantity of brown hair, a little badly 
treated by her habit of wearing it flat over her temples— a 
tradition of her boarding-school days, fifteen years ago. 
She had soft brown eyes, with a slight redness of the eyelid 
not inconsistent nor entirely unbecoming to widowhood; a 
small mouth depressed at the corners with a charming, 
childlike discontent; white regular teeth, and the eloquence 
of a complexion that followed unvaryingly the spirits of her 
physical condition. She appeared to be about thirty, and 
had that unmistakable “married” look which even the 
most amiable and considerate of us, my dear sir, are apt to 
impress upon the one woman whom we choose to elect to 
years of exclusive intimacy and attention. The late Don 
Jos^ Sepulvida’s private mark—as well defined as the brand 
upon his cattle—was a certain rigid line, like a grave accent, 
from the angle of this little woman’s nostril to the corners 
of her mouth, and possibly to an increased peevishness of 
depression at those corners. It bore witness to the fond¬ 
ness of the deceased for bear-baiting and bull-fighting, and 
a possible weakness for a certain Senora X. of San Franc:isco, 
whose reputation was none of the best, and was not 
increased by her distance from San Antonio and the sur¬ 
veillance of Donna Maria. 

When an hour later “Pepe” appeared to his mistress, 
bearing a salver with Arthur Poinsett’s business card and a 
formal request for an interview, I am afraid Donna Maria 
was a little disappointed. If he had suddenly scaled the 


Domia Maria rnakes an Impression. 143 

rerandah, evaded her servants, and appeared before her in 
an impulsive, forgivable way, it would have seemed consis¬ 
tent with his character as a hero, and perhaps more in keep¬ 
ing with the general tenor of her reveries when the servitor 
entered. Howbeit, after heaving an impatient little sigh, 
and bidding “ Pepe ” show the gentleman into the drawing¬ 
room, she slipped quietly down from the hammock in a deft 
womanish way, and whisked herself into her dressing-room. 

“He couldn’t have been more formal if Don Josd had 
been alive,” she said to herself as she walked to her glass 
and dressing-table. 

Arthur Poinsett entered the vacant drawing-room not in 
the best of his many humours. He had read in the eyes of 
the lounging vaqueros^ in the covert glances of the women 
servants, that the story of his adventure was known to the 
household. Habitually petted and spoiled as he had been 
by the women of his acquaintance, he was half inclined to 
attribute this reference and assignment of his client’s 
business to the hands of Mrs. Sepulvida, as the result of a 
plan of Father Felipe’s, or absolute collusion between the 
parties. A little sore yet, and irritated by his recollection 
of the Padre’s counsel, and more impatient of the imputa¬ 
tion of a weakness than anything else, Arthur had resolved 
to limit the interview to the practical business on hand, and 
in so doing had, for a moment, I fear, forgotten his native 
courtesy. It did not tend to lessen his irritation and self- 
consciousness when Mrs. Sepulvida entered the room with¬ 
out the slightest evidence of her recent disappointment visible 
in her perfectly easy, frank self-possession, and after a con¬ 
ventional, half Spanish solicitousness regarding his health 
since their last interview, without any further allusions to their 
adventure, begged him to be seated. She herself took an 
easy chair on the opposite side of the table, and assumed at 
once an air of respectful but somewhat indifferent attention. 


144 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ I believe,” said Arthur, plunging at once into his sub 
ject to get rid of his embarrassment and the slight instinct 
of antagonism he was beginning to feel toward the woman 
before him, “ I believe—that is, I am told—that besides 
your own business, you are intrusted with some documents 
and facts regarding a claim of the Donna Dolores Salva- 
tierra. Which shall we have first ? I am entirely at your 
service for the next two hours, but we shall proceed faster 
and with less confusion by taking up one thing at a time.” 

“ Then let us begin with Donna Dolores, by all means,” 
said Donna Maria; “ my own affairs can wait. Indeed,” 
she added, languidly, “ I daresay one of your clerks could 
attend to it as well as yourself. If your time is valuable—as 
indeed it must be—I can put the papers in his hands and 
make him listen to all my foolish, irrelevant talk. He can 
sift it for you, Don Arturo. I really am a child about 
business, really.” 

Arthur smiled, and made a slight gesture of deprecation. 
In spite of his previous resolution, Donna Maria’s tone of 
slight pique pleased him. Yet he gravely opened his note¬ 
book, and took up his pencil without a word. Donna Maria 
observed the movements, and said more seriously— 

“ Ah yes ! how foolish ! Here I am talking about my 
own affairs, when I should be speaking of Donna Dolores! 
Well, to begin. Let me first explain why she has put this 
matter in my hands. My husband and her father were 
friends, and had many business interests in common. As 
you have doubtless heard, she has always been very quiet, 
very reserved, very religious—almost a nun. I daresay she 
was driven into this isolation by reason of the delicacy of 
her position here, for you know—do you not?—that her 
mother was an Indian. It is only a few years ago that the 
old Governor, becoming a widower and childless, bethought 
himself of this Indian child, Dolores. He found the 


Doruia Maria makes an Impression. 145 

mother dead, and the girl living somewhere at a distant 
Mission as an acolyte. He brought her to San Antonio, 
had her christened, and made legally his daughter and 
heiress. She was a mere slip of a thing, about fourteen or 
fifteen. She might have had a pretty complexion, for some 
of these half-breeds are nearly white, but she had been 
stained when an infant with some barbarous and indelible 
dye, after the savage custom of her race. She is now a 
light copper colour, not unlike those bronze shepherdesses 
on yonder clock. In spite of all this I call her pretty. 
Perhaps it is because I love her and am prejudiced. But 
you gentlemen are so critical about complexion and colour 
—no wonder that the poor child refuses to see anybody, 
and never goes into society at all. It is a shame ! But— 
pardon, Mr. Poinsett, here am I gossiping about your 
client’s looks, when I should be stating her grievances.” 

“No, no !” said Arthur, hastily, “go on—in your own 
way.” 

Mrs Sepulvida lifted her forefinger archly. 

“ Ah ! is it so, Don Arturo ? I thought so ! Well, it is 
a great shame that she is not here for you to judge for 
yourself.” 

Angry with himself for his embarrassment, and for the 
rising colour on his cheek, Arthur would have explained 
himself, but the lady, with feminine tact, did not permit 
him. 

“ To proceed: Partly because I did not participate in 
the prejudices with which the old families here regarded 
her race and colour, partly, perhaps, because we were both 
strangers here, we became friends. At first she resisted all 
«ny advances—indeed, I think she was more shy of me than 
the others, but I triumphed in time, and we became good 
friends. Friends, you understand, Mr. Poinsett, not confix 
dantt. You men, I know, deem this impossible, but Donna 

VOL. IV. I K 


146 Gabriel Conroy. 

Dolores is a singular girl, andr I have never, except upon 
the most general topics, won her from her habitual reserve 
And I possess perhaps her only friendship.” 

“ Except Father Felipe, her confessor ? ” 

Mrs. Sepulvida shrugged her shoulders, and then borrowed 
the habitual sceptical formula of San Antonio. 

“ Quien sabel But I am rambling again. Now for the 
case.” 

She rose, and taking from the drawer of the secretary an 
envelope, drew out some papers it contained, and referred 
to them as she went on. 

“ It appears that a grant of Micheltorena to Salvatierra 
was discovered recently at Monterey, a grant of which there 
was no record among Salvatierra’s papers. The explana¬ 
tion given is that it was placed some five years ago in trust 
with a Don Pedro Ruiz, of San Francisco, as security for a 
lease now expired. The grant is apparently regular, pro¬ 
perly witnessed, and attested. Don Pedro has written that 
some of the witnesses are still alive, and remember it” 

“Then why not make the proper application for a 
patent ? ” 

“ True, but it that were all, Don Arturo would not have 
been summoned from San Francisco for consultation. 
There is something else. Don Pedro writes that another 
grant for the same land has been discovered recorded to 
another party.” 

“ That is, I am sorry to say, not a singular experience in 
our profession,” said Arthur, with a smile. “ But Salvatierra’s 
known reputation and probity would probably be sufficient 
to outweigh equal documentary evidence on the other side. 
It’s unfortunate he’s dead, and the grant was discovered 
after his death.” 

“ But th<^ holder of the other grant is dead too I ” said 
the widow 


Donna Maria makes an Impression, 147 

•• That makes it about equal again. But who is he ? ” 

Mrs. Sepulvida referred to her papers, and then said— 

“Dr. Devarges.'’ 

“ Who?” 

“ Devarges,” said Mrs. Sepulvida, referring to her notes 
“ A singular name—a foreigner, I suppose. No, really Mr 
Poinsett, you shall not look at the paper until I have copieo 
it—it’s written horribly—you can’t understand it ! I’m 
really ashamed of my writing, but I was in such a hurry, 
expecting you every moment! Why, la ! Mr. Poinsett, how 
cold your hands are ! ” 

Arthur Poinsett had risen hurriedly, and reached out 
almost brusquely for the paper that she held. But the 
widow had coquettishly resisted him with a mischievous 
show of force, and had caught and—dropped his hand ! 

“ And you are pale, too. Dear me ! I’m afraid you took 
cold that morning,” said Mrs. Sepulvida. “ I should never 
forgive myself if you did. I should cry my eyes out ! ” and 
Donna Maria cast a dangerous look from under her slightly 
swollen lids that looked as if they might threaten a deluge. 

Nothing, nothing, I have ridden far this morning, and 
rose early,” said Arthur, chafing his hands with a slightly 
embarrassed smile. “ But I interrupted you. Pray go on. 
Has Dr. Devarges any heirs to contest the grant ? ” 

But the widow did not seem inclined to go on. She was 
positive that Arthur wanted some wine. Would he not let 
her order some slight repast before they proceeded further 
in this horrid business ? She was tired. She was quite sure 
that Arthur must be so too. 

“ It is my business,” said Arthur, a little stiffly, but, re¬ 
covering himself again in a sudden and new alarm of the 
widow, he smiled and suggested the sooner the business was 
over, the sooner he would be able to partake of her hospi* 
tality. 


148 Gabriel Conroy. 

The widow beamed prospectively. 

“There are no heirs that we can find. But there is a—whal 
do you call it ?—a something or other—in possession ! ” 

“ A squatter ? said Poinsett, shortly. 

“ Yes,” continued the widow, with a light laugh; “ a 
‘ squatter,’ by the name of—of—my writing is so horrid— 
me see, oh, yes ! ‘ Gabriel Conroy.’ ” 

Arthur made an involuntary gesture toward the paper with 
his hand, but the widow mischievously skipped toward the 
window, and, luckily for the spectacle of his bloodless face, 
held the paper before her dimpled face and laughing eyes, 
as she did so. 

“ Gabriel Conroy,” repeated Mrs. Sepulvida, “ and—and 
—and—his ”- 

“ His sister ? ” said Arthur, with an effort. 

“No, sir! ” responded Mrs. Sepulvida, with a slight pout, 
Sister indeed! As if we married women are 
always to be ignored by you legal gentlemen! ” 

Arthur remained silent, with his face turned toward the sea. 
When he did speak his voice was quite natural. 

“ Might I change my mind regarding your offer of a 
moment ago, and take a glass of wine and a biscuit now ? ” 

Mrs. Sepulvida ran to the door. 

“ Let me look over your notes while you are gone,” said 
Arthur. 

“You won’t laugh at my writing?” 

“ No!” 

Donna Maria tossed him the envelope gaily and flew out of 
the room. Arthur hurried to the window with the coveted 
memoranda. There were the names she had given him— 
but nothing more ! At least this was some slight relief. 

The suddenness of the shock, rather than any moral 
sentiment or fear, had upset him. Like most imaginative 
men, he was a trifle superstitious, and with the first mention 



Donna Maria makes an Impression. 149 

of Devarges’s name came a swift recollection of Padre Felipe’s 
analysis of his own character, his sad, ominous reverie in the 
chapel, the trifling circumstance that brought him instead 
of his partner to San Antonio, and the remoter chance that 
had discovered the forgotten grant and selected him to 
prosecute its recovery. This conviction entertained and 
forgotten, all the resources of his combative nature returned. 
Of course he could not prosecute this claim ; of course he 
ought to prevent others from doing it. There was every 
probability that the grant of Devarges was a true one— 
and Gabriel was in possession! Had he really become 
Devarges’s heir, and if so, why had he not claimed the grant 
boldly ? And where was Grace ? 

In this last question there was a slight tinge of sentimental 
recollection, but no remorse or shame. That he might in 
some way be of service to her, he fervently hoped. That, 
time having blotted out the romantic quality of their early 
acquaintance, there would really be something fine and loyal 
in so doing, he did not for a moment doubt. He would 
suggest a compromise to his fair client, himself seek out and 
confer with Grace and Gabriel, and all should be made * 
right. His nervousness and his agitation was, he was 
satisfied, only the result of a conscientiousness and a deli¬ 
cately honourable nature, perhaps too fine and spiritual for 
the exigencies of his profession. Of one thing he was con¬ 
vinced : he really ought to carefully consider Father Felipe’s 
advice; he ought to put himself beyond the reach of these 
romantic relapses. 

In this self-sustained, self-satisfied mood, Mrs. Sepulvida 
found him on her return. Since she had been gone, he 
ikid, he had been able to see his way quite clearly into this 
case, and he had no doubt his perspicacity was greatly 
aided by the admirable manner in which she had indicated 
various points on the paper she had given him. He 


150 Gabriel Conroy, 

was now ready to take up her own matters, only he begged 
as clear and concise a brief as she had already made for 
her friend. He was so cheerful and gallant that by the 
time luncheon was announced the widow found him quite 
charming, and was inclined to forgive him for the disap¬ 
pointment of the morning. And when, after luncheon, he 
challenged her to a sharp canter with him along the beach, 
by way, as he said, of keeping her memory from taking 
cold, and to satisfy herself that the Point of Pines could be 
doubled without going out to sea, I fear that, without a 
prudent consideration of the gossips of San Antonio before 
her eyes, she assented. There could be no harm in riding 
with her late husband’s legal adviser, who had called, as 
everybody knew, on business, and whose time was so 
precious that he must return even before the business was 
concluded. And then “ Pepe ” could follow them, to 
return with her! 

It did not, of course, occur to either Arthur or Donna 
Maria that they might outrun “ Pepe,” who was fat and 
indisposed to violent exertion; nor that they should find 
other things to talk about than the details of business; nor 
that the afternoon should be so marvellously beautiful as to 
cause them to frequently stop and admire the stretch of 
glittering sea beyond ; nor that the roar of the waves was 
so deafening as to oblige them to keep so near each other 
for the purposes of conversation that the widow’s soft breath 
was continually upon Arthur’s cheek; nor that Donna 
Maria’s saddle girth should become so loose that she. was 
forced to dismount while Arthur tightened it, and that he 
should be obliged to lift her in his arms to restore her to 
her seat again. But finally, when the Point of Pines was 
safely rounded, and Arthur was delivering a few parting 
words of legal counsel, holding one of her hands in his- 
while with the other he was untwisting a long tress of hei 


The Lady of Grief. 151 

blown down hair, that, after buffeting his check into colour, 
had suddenly twined itself around his neck, an old-fashioned 
family carriage, drawn by four black mules with silver 
harness, passed them suddenly on the road. 

Donna Maria drew her head and her hand away with a 
quick blush and laugh, and then gaily kissed her finger-tips 
to the retreating carriage. Arthur laughed also—but a 
little foolishly—and looked as if expecting some explana¬ 
tion. 

“You should have your wits about you, sir. Did you 
know who that was ? ” 

Arthur sincerely confessed ignorance. He had not 
noticed the carriage until it had passed. 

“Think what you have lost! That was your fair young 
client.” » 

“ I did not even see her,” laughed Arthur. 

“ But she saw you! She never took her eyes off you. 
Adios I 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE LADY OF GRIEF, 

“ You will not go to-day,” said Father Felipe to Arthur, 
as he entered the Mission refectory early the next morning 
to breakfast. 

“I shall be on the road in an hour. Father,” replied 
Arthur, gaily. 

“ But not toward San Francisco,” said the Padre. 
“ Listen ! Your wish of yesterday has been attained. You 
are to have your desired interview with the fair invisible. 
Do you comprehend ? Donna Dolores has sent for you.” 

Arthur looked up in surprise. Perhaps his face did not 
express as much pleasure as Father Felipe expected, who 


152 Gabriel Coni'oy. 

lifted his eyes to the ceiling, took a philosophical pinch of 
snuff, and muttered— 

“ Ah^ lo quees el mudo /—Now that he has his wish—it is 
nothing, Mother of God !” 

“This \%your kindness, Father.” 

“ God forbid ! ” returned Padre Felipe, hastily. “ Believe 
me, my son, I know nothing. When the Donna left here 
before the Angelus yesterday, she said nothing of this. Per¬ 
haps it is the office of your friend, Mrs. Sepulvida.” 

“ Hardly, I think,” said Arthur; “ she was so well pre¬ 
pared with all the facts as to render an interview with Donna 
Dolores unnecessary. Bueno^ be it so ! I will go.” 

Nevertheless, he was ill at ease. He ate little, he was 
silent. All the fears he had argued away with such self- 
satisfied logic the day before, returned to him again with 
greater anxiety. Could there have been any further facts 
regarding this inopportune grant that Mrs. Sepulvida had 
not disclosed ? Was there any particular reason why this 
strange recluse, who had hitherto avoided his necessary 
professional presence, should now desire a personal inter¬ 
view which was not apparently necessary? Could it be 
possible that communication had already been established 
with Gabriel or Grace, and that the history of their previous 
life had become known to his client ? Had his connexion 
with it been in any way revealed to the Donna Dolores ? 

If he had been able to contemplate this last possibility 
with calmness and courage yesterday when Mrs. Sepuldda 
first repeated the name of Gabriel Conroy, was he capable 
of equal resignation now? Had anything occurred since 
then ?—had any new resolution entered his head to which 
such a revelation would be fatal ? Nonsense ! And yet 
he could not help commenting, with more or less vague 
uneasiness of mind, on his chance meeting of Donna 
Dolores at the Point of Pines yesterday and the summons 


The Lady of Grief. 153 

of this morning. Would not his foolish attitude with Donna 
Maria, aided, perhaps, by some indiscreet expression from 
the well-meaning but senile Padre Felipe, be sufficient to 
exasperate his fair client had she been cognizant of his first 
relations with Grace ? It is not mean natures alone that 
are the most suspicious- A quick, generous imagination, 
feverishly excited, will project theories of character and 
intention far more ridiculous and uncomplimentary to 
humanity than the lowest surmises of ignorance and imbe¬ 
cility. Arthur was feverish and excited; with all the instincts 
of a contradictory nature, his easy sentimentalism dreaded, 
while his combative principles longed for, this interview. 
Within an hour of the time appointed by Donna Dolores, 
he had thrown himself on his horse, and was galloping 
furiously toward the “ Rancho of the Holy Trinity.” 

It was inland and three leagues away under the foot-hills. 
But as he entered upon the level plain, unrelieved by any 
watercourse, and baked and cracked by the fierce sun into 
narrow gaping chasms and yawning fissures, he uncon¬ 
sciously began to slacken his pace. Nothing could be more 
dreary, passionless, and resigned than the vast, sunlit, yet 
joyless waste. It seemed as if it might be some illimitable, 
desolate sea, beaten flat by the north-westerly gales that 
spent their impotent fury on its unopposing levels. As far 
as the eye could reach, its dead monotony was unbroken ; 
even the black cattle that in the clear distance seemed to 
crawl over its surface, did not animate it; rather by contrast 
brought into relief its fixed rigidity of outline. Neither 
wind, sky, nor sun wrought any change over its blank, 
expressionless face. It was the symbol of Patience—a hope¬ 
less. weary, helpless patience—but a patience that was 
Eternal. 

He had ridden for nearly an hour, when suddenly there 
seemed to spring up from the earth, a mile away, a dark 


4 


154 Gjcthriel Conroy. 

line of wall, terminating in an irregular, broken outline 
against the sky. His first impression was that it was the 
valda or a break of the stiff skirt of the mountain as it struck 
the level plain. But he presently saw the dull red of tiled 
roofs over the dark adobe wall, and as he dashed down into 
the dry bed of a vanished stream and up again on the 
opposite bank, he passed the low walls of a corral^ until then 
unnoticed, and a few crows, in a rusty, half-Spanish, half¬ 
clerical suit, uttered a croaking welcome to the Rancho of 
the Holy Trinity, as they rose from the ground before him. 
It was the first sound that for an hour had interrupted the 
monotonous jingle of his spurs or the hollow beat of his 
horse’s hoofs. And then, after the fashion of the country, 
he rose slightly in his stirrups, dashed his spurs into the 
sides of his mustang, swung the long, horsehair, braided 
thong of his bridle-rein, and charged at headlong speed 
upon the dozen lounging, apparently listless vaqueros, who, 
for the past hour, had nevertheless been watching and wait¬ 
ing for him at the courtyard gate. As he rode toward them, 
they separated, drew up each side of the gate, doffed their 
glazed, stiff-brimmed, black soinbreros^ wheeled, put spurs to 
their horses, and in another instant were scattered to the 
four winds. When Arthur leaped to the brick pavement of 
the courtyard, there was not one in sight. 

An Indian servant noiselessly led away his horse. 
Another peon as mutely led the way along a corridor over 
whose low railings scrapes and saddle blankets were hung 
in a barbaric confusion of colouring, and entered a bare- 
walled ante-room, where another Indian—old, grey-headed, 
with a face like a wrinkled tobacco leaf—was seated on a 
low wooden settle in an attitude of patient expectancy. To 
Arthurs active fancy he seemed to have been sitting there 
since the establishment of the Mission, and to have grown 
grey in waiting for him. As Arthur entered he rose, and 


The Lady of Grief, 155 

with a few grave Spanish courtesies, ushered him into a 
larger and more elaborately furnished apartment, and again 
retired with a bow. Familial as Arthur was with these 
various formalities, at present they seemed to have an undue 
significance, and he turned somewhat impatiently as a door 
opened at the other end of the apartment. At the same 
moment a subtle strange perfume—not unlike some bar¬ 
baric spice or odorous Indian herb—stole through the 
door, and an old woman, brown-faced, murky-eyed, and 
decrepit, entered with a respectful curtsey. 

“It is Don Arturo Poinsett?” Arthur bowed. 

“The Donna Dolores has a little indisposition, and claims 
your indulgence if she receives you in her own room.” 

Arthur bowed assent. 

Bueno / This way.” 

She pointed to the open door. Arthur entered by a 
narrow passage cut through the thickness of the adobe 
wall into another room beyond, and paused on the threshold. 

Even the gradual change from the glaring sunshine of 
the courtyard to the heavy shadows of the two rooms he 
had passed through was not sufficient to accustom his eyes 
to the twilight of the apartment he now entered. For 
several seconds he could not distinguish anything but a 
few dimly outlined objects. By degrees he saw that there 
were a bed, a prie-dieu^ and a sofa against the opposite 
wall. The scant light of two windows—mere longitudinal 
slits in the deep walls—at first permitted him only this. 
Later he saw that the sofa was occupied by a half-reclining 
figure, whose face was partly hidden by a fan, and the white 
folds of whose skirt fell in graceful curves to the floor. 

“You speak Spanish, Don Arturo?” said an exquisitely 
modulated voice from behind the fan, in perfect Castilian. 

Arthur turned quickly toward the voice with an inde 
•cribable thrill of pleasure in his nerves. 


Gabriel Conroy, 


156 

“A little.” 

He was usually rather proud of his Spanish, but for onco 
the conventional polite disclaimer was quite sincere. 

** Be seated, Don Arturo ! ” 

He advanced to a chair indicated by the old woman 
within a few feet of the sofa and sat down. At the same 
instant the reclining figure, by a quick, dexterous move¬ 
ment, folded the large black fan that had partly hidden 
her features, and turned her face toward him. 

Arthur’s heart leaped with a sudden throb, and then, as 
it seemed to him, for a few seconds stopped beating. The 
eyes that met his were large, lustrous, and singularly 
beautiful; the features were small, European, and perfectly 
modelled; the outline of the small face was a perfect oval, 
but the complexion was of burnished copper! Yet even 
the next moment he found himself halting among a dozen 
comparisons—a golden sherry, a faintly dyed meerschaum, 
an autumn leaf, the inner bark of the madrono. Of only 
one thing was he certain—she was the most beautiful 
woman he had ever seen ! 

It is possible that the Donna read this in his eyes, for 
she opened her fan again quietly, and raised it slowly before 
her face. Arthur’s eager glance swept down the long curves 
of her graceful figure to the little foot in the white satin 
slipper below. Yet her quaint dress, except for its colour, 
might have been taken for a religious habit, and had a 
hood or cape descending over her shoulders not unlike a 
nun’s. 

“You have surprise, Don Arturo,” she said, after a pause, 
“that I have sent for you, after having before consulted 
you by proxy. Good ! But I have changed my mind since 
then ! I have concluded to take no steps for the present 
toward perfecting the grant.” 

In an instant Arthur was himself again—and completely 


The Lady of Grief. 157 

on his guard The Donna’s few words had recalled the 
past that he had been rapidly forgetting; even the perfectly 
delicious cadence of the tones in which it was uttered had 
now no power to fascinate him or lull his nervous anxiety. 
He felt a presentiment that the worst was coming. He 
turned toward her, outwardly calm, but alert, eager, and 
watchful. 

“Have you any newly discovered evidence that makes 
the issue doubtful ? ” he asked. 

“No,” said Donna Dolores. 

“ Is there anything ?—any fact that Mrs. Sepulvida has 
forgotten ? ” continued Arthur. “ Here are, I believe, the 
points she gave me,” he added, and, with the habit of a well- 
trained intelligence, he put before Donna Dolores, in a few 
well-chosen words, the substance of Mrs. Sepulvida’s story. 
Nor did his manner in the least betray a fact of which he 
was perpetually cognisant—namely, that his fair client, 
between the sticks of her fan, was studying his face 
with more than feminine curiosity. When he paused she 
said— 

“ Bueno ! That is what I told her.” 

“ Is there anything more ? ”—“ Perhaps ! ” 

Arthur folded his arms and looked attentive. Donna 
Dolores began to go over the sticks of her fan one by one, 
as if it were a rosary. 

“ I have become acquainted with some facts in this case 
which may not interest you as a lawyer, Don Arturo, but 
which affect me as a woman. When I have told you them, 
you will tell me—who knows ?—that they do not alter the 
legal aspect of my—my father’s claim. You will perhaps 
laugh at me for my resolution. But I have given you so 
much trouble, that it is only fair you should know it is not 
merely caprice that governs me—that you should know why 
four visit here is a barren one; why you—the great advo 


158 Gabriel Conroy. 

cate—have been obliged to waste your valuable time with 
my poor friend, Donna Maria, for nothing.” 

Arthur was too much pre-occupied to notice the pecu* 
liarly feminine significance with which the Donna dwelt 
upon this latter sentence—a fact that would not otherwise 
have escaped his keen observation. He slightly stroked 
his brown moustache, and looked out of the window with 
masculine patience. 

“ It is not caprice, Don Arturo. But I am a woman and 
an orphan ! You know my history! The only friend I 
had has left me here alone the custodian of these vast 
estates. Listen to me, Don Arturo, and you will under¬ 
stand, or at least forgive, my foolish interest in the people 
who contest this claim. For what has happened to them, 
to her^ might have happened to me, but for the bles.sed 
Virgin’s mediation.” 

“To her —who is she asked Arthur, quietly. 

“ Pardon ! I had forgotten you do not know. Listen. 
You have heard that this grant is occupied by a man and 
his wife—a certain Gabriel Conroy. Good ! You have 
heard that they have made no claim to a legal title to the 
land, except through pre-emption. Good. That is not 
true, Don Arturo ! ” 

Arthur turned to her in undisguised surprise. 

“ This is new matter ; this is a legal point of some 
importance.” 

“ Who knows ? ” said Donna Dolores, indifferently. “ It 
is not in regard of that that I speak. The claim is this. 
The Dr. Devarges, who also possesses a grant for the same 
land, made a gift of it to the sister of this Gabriel. Do you 
comprehend ? ” She paused, and fixed her eyes on Arthur. 

“ Perfectly,” said Arthur, with his gaze still fixed on the 
window; “ it accounts for the presence of this Gabriel on 
the land. But is she living ? Or, if not, is he her legally con- 


^59 


The Lady of Grief 

itituted heir? That is the question, and—pardon me if I 
suggest again—a purely legal and not a sentimental ques¬ 
tion Was this woman who has disappeared—this sister— 
this sole and only legatee—a married woman—had she a 
child ? Because that is the heir.” 

The silence that followed this question was so protracted 
that Arthur turned towards Donna Dolores. She had 
apparently made some sign to her aged waiting-woman, who 
was bending over her, between Arthur and the sofa. In a 
moment, however, the venerable handmaid withdrew, leav¬ 
ing them alone. 

“You are right, Don Arturo,” continued Donna Dolores, 
behind her fan. “You see that, after all, your advice is 
necessary, and what I began as an explanation of my folly 
may be of business importance; who knows ? It is good 
of you to recall me to that. We women are foolish. You 
are sagacious and prudent. It was well that I saw you !” 

Arthur nodded assent, and resumed his professional atti¬ 
tude of patient toleration—that attitude which the world 
over has been at once the exasperation and awful admiration 
of the largely injured client. 

“ And the sister, the real heiress, is gone—disappeared ! 
No one knows where ! All trace of her is lost. But now 
comes to the surface an impostor! a woman who assumes 
the character and name of Grace Conroy, the sister! ” 

“ One moment,” said Arthur, quietly, “ how do you know 
that it is an impostor ? ” 

“ How—do—I—know—it ? ” 

“ Yes, what are the proofs ? ” 

“ I am told so ! ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Arthur, relapsing into his professional atti 
tude again. 

“ Proofs,” repeated Donna Dolores, hurriedly. “ Is it not 
enough that she has married this Gabriel, her brother ? ” 


16o Gabriel Conroy, 

** That is certainly strong moral proof—and perhaps legal 
corroborative evidence,” said Arthur, coolly; “ but it will 
not legally estop her proving that she is his sister—if she 
can do so. But I ask your pardon—go on ! ” 

“ That is all,” said Donna Dolores, sitting up, with a slight 
gesture of impatience. 

“ Very well. Then, as I understand, the case is simply 
this : You hold a grant to a piece of land, actually possessed 
by a squatter, who claims it through his wife or sister— 
legally it doesn’t matter which—by virtue of a bequest made 
by one Dr. Devarges, who also held a grant to the same 
property ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Donna Dolores, hesitatingly. 

“Well, the matter lies between you and Dr. Devarges 
only. It is simply a question of the validity of the original 
grants. All that you have told me does not alter that 
radical fact. Stay ! One moment! May I ask how you 
have acquired these later details ? ” 

“ By letter. ” 

“ From whom ? ” 

“ There was no signature. The writer offered to prove 
all he said. It was anonymous.” 

Arthur rose- with a superior smile. 

“ May I ask you further, without impertinence, if it is 
upon this evidence that you propose to abandon your claim 
to a valuable property ? ” 

“ I have told you before that it is not a legal question, 
Don Arturo,” said Donna Dolores, waving her fan a little 
more rapidly. 

“ Good ! let us take it in the moral or sentimental aspect 
—since you have purposed to honour me with a request foi 
my counsel. To begin, you have a sympathy for the orphan, 
who does not apparently exist.” 

“ But her brother ?” 


i6i 


The Lady of Grief 

** Has already struck hands with tlK impostor, and married 
her to secure the claim. And this brother—what proof is 
there that he is not an impostor too ? 

“ True,” said Donna Dolores, musingly. 

“ He will certainly have to settle that trifling question with 
Dr. Devarges’s heirs, whoever they may be.” 

‘‘ True,” said Donna Dolores. 

‘ In short, I see no reason, even from your own view-point, 
why you should not fight this claim. The orphan you 
sympathise with is not an active party. You have only a 
brother opposed to you, who seems to have been willing to 
barter away a sister’s birthright. And, as I said before, your 
sympathies, however kind and commendable they may be, 
will be of no avail unless the courts decide against Dr. 
Devarges. My advice is to fight. If the right does not 
always succeed, my experience is that the Right, at least, is 
apt to play its best card, and put forward its best skill And 
until it does that, it might as well be the Wrong, you know.” 

“You are wise, Don Arturo. But you lawyers are so 
often only advocates. Pardon, I mean no wrong. But if 
it were Grace—the sister, you understand—what would be 
your advice ? 

“ The same. Fight it out! If I could overthrow your 
grant, I should do it. The struggle, understand me, is 
there, and not with this wife and sister. But how does it 
come that a patent for this has not been applied for before 
by Gabriel ? Did your anonymous correspondent explain 
that fact ? It is a point in our favour.” 

“ You forget— o?^r grant was only recently discovered.” 

“ True! it is about equal, then, ab initio. And the 
absence of this actual legatee is in our favour.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“Because there is a certain human sympathy in juriet 
with a pretty orphan—particularly if poor.” 
iv. 


L 


162 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ How do you know she was pretty ? ” asked Donna 
Dolores, quickly. 

“I presume so. It is the privilege of orphanage,” he 
said, with a bow of cold gallantry. 

“ You are wise, Don Arturo. May you live a thousand 
years.” 

This time it was impossible but Arthur should notice the 
irony of Donna Dolores’s manner. All his strong com- 
bative instincts rose. The mysterious power of her beauty, 
which he could not help acknowledging, her tone of superi¬ 
ority, whether attributable to a consciousness of this power 
over him, or some knowledge of his past—all aroused his 
cold pride. He remembered the reputation that Donna 
Dolores bore as a religious devotee and rigid moralist. If 
he had been taxed with his abandonment of Grace, with his 
half-formed designs upon Mrs. Sepulvida, he would have 
coldly admitted them without excuse or argument. In 
doing so, he would have been perfectly conscious that he 
should lose the esteem of Donna Dolores, of whose value 
he had become, within the last few moments, equally con¬ 
scious. But it was a part of this young man’s singular 
nature that he would have experienced a certain self-satis¬ 
faction in the act, that would have outweighed all other 
considerations. In the ethics of his own consciousness he 
called this “ being true to himself.” In a certain sense 
he was right. 

He rose, and, standing respectfully before his fair client, 
said— 

“ Have you decided fully ? Do I understand that I am 
to press this claim with a view of ousting these parties ? or 
will you leave them for the present in undisturbed posses¬ 
sion of the land?” 

“But what you say ?” conunued Donna Dolores, with 
hex eyes fixed upon his face. 


The Lady of Grief. 163 

I have said already,” returned Arthur, with a patient smile. 
* Morally and legally, my advice is to press the claim! ” 

Donna Dolores turned her eyes away with the slightest 
shade of annoyance. 

"Bueno! We shall see. There is time enough. Be 
seated, Don Arturo. What is this? Surely you will not 
refuse our hospitality to-night ? ” 

“ I fear,” said Arthur, with grave politeness, “ that I must 
return to the Mission at once. I have already delayed my 
departure a day. They expect me in San Francisco to¬ 
morrow.” 

“ Let them wait. You shall write that important business 
keeps you here, and Diego shall ride my own horse to reach 
the e7nbarcadero for the steamer to-night. To-morrow he 
will be in San Francisco.” 

Before he could stay her hand she had rung a small 
bronze bell that stood beside her. 

“But, Donna Dolores”-Arthur began, hastily. 

“ I understand,” interrupted Donna Dolores. “ Diego,” 
she continued rapidly, as a servant entered the room, 
“saddle Jovita instantly and make ready for a journey. 
Then return here. Pardon ! ” she turned to Arthur. “ You 
would say your time is valuable. A large sum depends upon 
your presence ! Good ! Write to your partners that I will 
pay all—that no one else can afford to give as large a sum 
for your services as myself. Write that here you must stay.” 

Annoyed and insulted as Arthur felt, he could not help 
gazing upon her with an admiring fascination. I’he im¬ 
perious habit of command; an almost despotic control of 
a hundred servants; a certain barbaric contempt for the 
unlimited revenues at her disposal that prompted the act, 
became her wonderfully. In her impatience the quick 
blood glanced through her bronzed cheek, her little slipper 
Upped the floor imperiously, and her eyes flashed in the dark 



164 Gabriel Conroy, 

ness. Suddenly she stopped, looked at Arthur, and hesi¬ 
tated. 

“Pardon me; I have done wrong. Forgive me, Don 
Arturo. I am a spoiled woman who for five years has 
had her own way. I am apt to forget there is any world 
beyond my little kingdom here. Go, since it must be so, 
go at once.” 

She sank back on the sofa, half veiled her face with 
her fan, and dropped the long fringes of her eyes with a 
deprecating and half languid movement 

Arthur stood for a moment irresolute and hesitating, but 
only for a moment 

“ Let me thank you for enabling me to fulfil a duty 
without foregoing a pleasure. If your messenger is trust¬ 
worthy and fleet it can be done. I will stay.” 

She turned towards him suddenly and smiled. A smile 
apparently so rare to that proud little mouth and those 
dark, melancholy eyes; a smile that disclosed the smallest 
and whitest of teeth in such dazzling contrast to the shadow 
of her face ; a smile that even after its brightness had passed 
still left its memory in a dimple in either nut-brown cheek, 
and a glistening moisture in the dark eyes—that Arthur 
felt the warm blood rise to his face. 

“ There are writing materials in the other room. Diego 
will find you there,” said Donna Dolores, “ and I will rejoin 
you soon. Thanlfs.” 

She held out the smallest and brownest of hands. Arthur 
bent over it for a single moment, and then withdrew with 
a quickened pulse to the outer room. As the door closed 
upon him, Donna Dolores folded her fan, threw herself back 
upon the sofa, and called, in a quick whisper— 

“Manuela !” 

The old woman reappeared with an anxious face and rac 
towards the sofa. But she was too late; her mistress had 
fainted. 


A Leaf out of the Past, 


165 


CHAPTER VII. 

A LEAF OUT OF THE PAST. 

Arthur’s letter to his partners was a brief explanation of 
his delay, and closed with the following sentence— 

** Search the records for any deed or transfer of the grant from Dr. 
Devarges.” 

^ He had scarcely concluded before Diego entered ready 
for the journey. When he had gone, Arthur waited with 
some impatience the reappearance of Donna Dolores. To 
his disappointment, however, only the solemn major-domo 
strode grimly into the room like a dark-complexioned ghost, 
and, as it seemed to Arthur, with a strong suggestion of 
the Commander in “ Don Giovanni ” in his manner, silently 
beckoned him to follow to the apartment set aside for his 
reception. In keeping with the sun-evading instincts of 
Spanish Californian architecture the room was long, low, 
and half lighted; the two barred windows on either side of 
the doorway gave upon the corridor and courtyard below; 
the opposite wall held only a small narrow, deeply-em¬ 
brasured loop-hole, through which Arthur could see the 
vast, glittering, sun-illumined plain beyond. The hard, 
monotonous, unwinking glare without did not penetrate the 
monastic gloom of this chamber; even the insane, incessant 
restlessness of the wind that perpetually beset the bleak 
walls was unheard and unfelt in the grave, contemplative 
solitude of this religious cell 

Mingled with this grateful asceticism was the quaint con¬ 
trast of a peculiar Spanish luxuriousness. In a curtained 
recess an immense mahogany bedstead displayed a yellow 
satin coverlet profusely embroidered with pink and purple 
lilk flowers. The borders of the sheets and cases of the 


166 'Gabriel Conroy, 

satin pillows were deeply edged with the finest lace. Beside 
the bed and before a large armchair heavy rugs of barbaric 
colours covered the dark wooden floor, and in front of the 
deep oven-like hearth lay an immense bear-skin. About 
the hearth hung an ebony and gold crucifix, and, mingled 
with a few modern engravings, the usual Catholic saints 
and martyrs occupied the walls. It struck Arthur’s observa¬ 
tion oddly that the subjects of the secular engravings were 
snow landscapes. The Hospice of St. Bernard in winter, 
a pass in the Austrian Tyrol, the Steppes of Russia, a Nor¬ 
wegian plain, all to Arthur’s fancy brought the temperature 
of the room down considerably. A small water-colour of 
an Alpine flower touched him so closely that it might have 
blossomed from his recollection. 

Dinner which was prefaced by a message from Donna 
Dolores excusing herself through indisposition, was served in 
solemn silence. A cousin of the late Don Josd Salvatierra 
represented the family, and pervaded the meal with a mild 
flavour of stale cigaritos and dignified criticism of remote 
events. Arthur, disappointed at the absence of the Donna, 
found himself regarding this gentleman with some degree 
of asperity, and a disposition to resent any reference to his 
client’s business as an unwarrantable impertinence. But 
when the dinner was over, and he had smoked a cigar on 
the corridor without further communication with Donna 
Dolores, he began to be angry with himself for accepting 
her invitation, and savagely critical of the motives that 
impelled him to it. He was meditating an early retreat— 
even a visit to Mrs. Sepulvida—when Manuela entered. 

Would Don Arturo grant the Donna his further counsel 
and presence ? 

Don Arturo was conscious that his cheek was flushing 
and that his counsel at the present moment would not have 
been eminently remarkable for coolness or judiciousness 


A Leaf out of the Past, 167 

but he followed the Indian woman with a slight inclination 
of the head. They entered the room where he had first 
met the Donna. She might not have moved from the 
position she had occupied that morning on the couch, so 
like was her attitude and manner. As he approached hei 
respectfully, he was conscious of the same fragrance, and 
the same mysterious magnetism that seemed to leap from 
her dark eyes, and draw his own resisting and unwilling 
gaze toward her. 

“You will despise me, Don Arturo—you, whose country¬ 
women are so strong and active—because I am so little and 
weak, and,—Mother of God !—so lazy ! But I am an in¬ 
valid, and am not yet quite recovered. But then 1 am 
accustomed to it. I have lain here for days, Don Arturo, 
doing nothing. It is weary—eh? You think? This 
watching, this waiting !—day after day—always the same ! ” 

There was something so delicately plaintive and tender 
in the cadence of her speech—a cadence that might, per¬ 
haps, have been attributed to the characteristic intonation 
of the Castilian feminine speech, but which Arthur could 
not help thinking was peculiar to herself, that at the moment 
he dared not lift his eyes to her, although he was conscious 
she was looking at him. But by an impulse of safety he 
addressed himself to the fan. 

“ You have been an invalid then—Donna Dolores ? ” 

“A sufferer, Don Arturo.” 

“ Have you ever tried the benefit of change of scene —of 
habits cf life? Your ample means, your freedom from the 
cares of family or kinship, offer you such opportunities,” he 
continued, still addressing the fan. 

But the fan, as if magnetised by his gaze, became coquet- 
tishly conscious; fluttered, faltered, drooped, and thej 
languidly folded its wings. Arthur was left helpless. 

“ Perhaps,” said Donna Dolores : “ who knows?” 


168 Gabriel Conroy. 

She paused for an instant, and then made a sign to 
Manuela. The Indian woman rose and left the room. 

“ I have something to tell you, Don Arturo,” she 
continued, “something I should have told you this 
morning. It is not too late now. But it is a secret. It 
is only that I have questioned my right to tell it—not that 
I have doubted your honour, Don A.rturo, that I withheld 
it then.” 

Arthur raised his eyes to hers. It was her turn to evade 
his glance. With her long lashes drooped, she went on— 

“It is five years ago, and my father—whom may the 
Saints assoil—was alive. Came to us then at the Presidio 
of San Geronimo, a young girl—an American, a stranger 
and helpless. She had escaped from a lost camp in the 
snowy mountains where her family and friends were starving. 
That was the story she told my father. It was a probable 
one—was it not ? ” 

Arthur bowed his head, but did not reply. 

“ But the name that she gave was not a true one, as it 
appeared. My father had sent an Expedicion to relieve 
these people, and they had found among the dead the 
person whom this young girl—the stranger—assumed to be. 
That was their report. The name of the young girl who 
was found dead and the name of the young girl who came 
to us was the same. It was Grace Conroy.” 

Arthur’s face did not move a muscle, nor did he once 
take his eyes from the drooping lids of his companion. 

“It was a grave matter—a very grave matter. And it 
was the more surprising because the young girl had at first 
given another name—the name of Grace Ashley—which 
she afterwards explained was the name of the young man 
who helped her to escape, and whose sister she at first 
assumed to be. My father was a good man, a kind man— 
^ saint, Don Arturo. It was not for him to know if she 


A Leaf out of the Past, 169 

were Grace Ashley or Grace Conroy—it was enough for 
him to know that she was alive, weak, helpless, suffering. 
Against the advice of his officers, he took her into his own 
house, into his own family, into his own fatherly heart, to 
wait until her brother, or this Philip Ashley, should return. 
He never returned. In six months she was taken ill— very 
ill—a little child was born—Don Arturo—but in the same 
moment it died and the mother died—both, you compre¬ 
hend—both died—in my arms ! ” 

“ That was bad,” said Arthur, curtly. 

“ I do not comprehend,” said Donna Dolores. 

“ Pardon. Do not misunderstand me. I say it was bad, 
for I really believe that this girl, the mysterious stranger, 
with the a//as, was really Grace Conroy.” 

Donna Dolores raised her eyes and stared at Arthur. 

“ And why ? ” 

** Because the identification of the bodies by the Expedi- 
cion was hurried and imperfect.” 

“ How know you this ? ” 

Arthur arose and drew his chair a little nearer his fair 
client. 

“You have been good enough to intrust me with an 
important and honourable secret. Let me show my appre¬ 
ciation of that confidence by intrusting you with one equally 
important. I know that the identification was imperfect 
and hurried, because / was present. In the report of the 
Expedicion you will find the name, if you have not already 
read it, of Lieutenant Arthur Poinsett. That was myself.” 

Donna Dolores raised herself to a sitting posture. 

“ But why did you not tell me this before ? ” 

“Because, first, I believed that you knew that I was 
Lieutenant Poinsett. Because, secondly, I did noi believe 
that you knew that Arthur Poinsett and Philip Ashley were 
one and the same person.” 


170 Gabriel Com'oy. 

“ I do not understand,” said Donna Dolores slowly, in a 
hard metallic voice 

“ I am Lieutenant Arthur Poinsett, formerly of the 
army, who, under the assumed name of Philip Ashley, 
brought Grace Conroy out of Starvation Camp. I am the 
person who afterwards abandoned her—the father of her 
child.” 

He had not the slightest intention of saying this when 
he first entered the room, but something in his nature, 
which he had never tried to control, brought it out. He 
was neither ashamed of it nor apprehensive of its results; 
but, having said it, leaned back in his chair, proud, self- 
reliant, and self-sustained. If he had been uttering a moral 
sentiment he could not have been externally more calm or 
inwardly less agitated. More than that, there was a certain 
injured dignity in his manner, as he rose, without giving the 
speechless and astonished woman before him a chance to 
recover herself, and said— 

“You will be able now to know whether your confidence 
has been misplaced. You will be able now to determine 
what you wish done, and whether I am the person best 
calculated to assist you. I can only say, Donna Dolores, 
that I am ready to act. either as your witness to the 
identification of.the real Grace Conroy, or as your legal 
adviser, or both. When you have decided which, you shall 
give me your further commands, or dismiss me. Until 
then, adios/” 

He bowed, waved his hand with a certain grand courtesy, 
Rnd withdrew. When Donna Dolores raised her stupified 
head, the door had closed upon him. 

When this conceited young gentleman reached his own 
room, he was, I grieve to say, to some extent mentally, and 
if I may use the word, morally exalted by the interview 
More than that, he was in better spirits that he had been 


The Bulls of the Blessed Trinity, 171 

lince his arrival. From his room he strode out into the 
corridor. If his horse had been saddled, he would have 
taken a sharp canter over the low hills for exercise, pending 
the decision of his fair client, but it was the hour of the 
noonday siesta,^ and the courtyard was deserted. He walked 
to the gate, and looked across the plain. A fierce wind 
held uninterrupted possession of earth and sky. Something 
of its restlessness, just at that instant, was in Arthur’s breast, 
and, with a glance around the corridor, and a momentary 
hesitation, as an opening door, in a distant part of tht 
building, suggested the possibility of another summons 
from Donna Dolores, he stepped beyond the walls. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE BULLS OF THE BLESSED TRINITY. 

The absolute freedom of illimitable space, the exhilaration 
of the sparkling sunlight, and the excitement of the oppos¬ 
ing wind, which was strong enough to oblige him to exert 
a certain degree of physical strength to overcome it, so 
wrought upon Arthur, that in a few moments he had thrown 
off the mysterious spell which the Rancho of the Blessed 
Trinity appeared to have cast over his spirits, and had 
placed a material distance between himself and its gloomy 
towers. The landscape, which had hitherto seemed 
monotonous and uninspiring, now became suggestive; in 
the low dome-shaped hills beyond, that were huddled 
together like half-blown earth bubbles raised by the fiery 
breath of some long-dead volcano, he fancied he saw the 
origin of the mission architecture. In the long sweep of 
the level plain, he recognised the calm, uneventful life that 
had left its expression in the patient gravity of the people. 
In the fierce, restless wind that blew over it—a wind so 


172 Gabriel Conroy, 

persistent and perpetual that all umbrage, except a narrow 
fringe of dwarfed willows defining the line of an extinct 
watercourse, was hidden in sheltered canons and the lee¬ 
ward slopes of the hills—he recognised something of his 
own restless race, and no longer wondered at the barren¬ 
ness of the life that was turned towards the invader. “ J 
daresay,” he muttered to himself, “ somewhere in the lee 
ward of these people’s natures may exist a luxurious growth 
that we shall never know. I wonder if the Donna has 
not”—but here he stopped; angry, and, if the truth must 
be told, a little frightened at the persistency with which 
Donna Dolores obtruded herself into his abstract philosophy 
and sentiment. 

Possibly something else caused him for the moment to 
dismiss her from his mind. During his rapid walk he had 
noticed, as an accidental, and by no means an essential 
feature of the bleak landscape, the vast herds of crawling, 
purposeless cattle. An entirely new and distinct impression 
was now forming itself in his consciousness—namely, that 
they no longer were purposeless, vagrant, and wandering, 
but were actually obeying a certain definite law of attraction, 
and were moving deliberately toward an equally definite 
object. And that object was himself! 

Look where he would; before, behind, on either side, 
north, east, south, west,—on the bleak hill-tops, on the slope 
of the falda^ across the dried-up arroyo, there were the same 
converging lines of slowly moving objects towards a single 
focus—himself! Although walking briskly, and with a 
certain definiteness of purpose, he was apparently the only 
unchanging, fixed, and limited point in the now active land¬ 
scape. Everything that rose above the dead, barren level 
was now moving slowly, irresistibly, instinctively, but un¬ 
mistakably, towards one common centre—himself! Alone 
and unsupported, he was the helpless, unconscious nucleua 


The Bulls of the Blessed Trinity, 173 

of a slowly gathering force, almost immeasurable in its im¬ 
mensity and power ! 

At first the idea was amusing and grotesque. Then 
it became picturesque. Then it became something for 
practical consideration. And then—but no !—with the 
quick and unerring instincts of a powerful will, he choked 
down the next consideration before it had time to fasten 
upon or paralyse his strength. He stopped and turned. 
The Rancho of the Blessed Trinity was gone ! Had it 
suddenly sank in the earth, or had he diverged from his 
path ? Neither; he had simply walked over the little 
elevation in the plain beside the arroyo and corral^ and had 
already left the Rancho two miles behind him. 

It was not the only surprise that came upon him suddenly 
like a blow between the eyes. The same mysterious 
attraction had been operating in his rear, and when he 
turned to retrace his steps towards the Mission, he faced 
the staring eyes of a hundred bulls not fifty yards away« 
As he faced them, the nearest turned, the next rank followed 
their example, the next the same, and the next, until in the 
distance he could see the movement repeated with military 
precision and sequence. With a sense of relief, that he put 
aside as quickly as he had the sense of fear, he quickened 
his pace, until the nearest bull ahead broke into a gentle 
trot, which was communicated line by line to the cattle 
beyond, until the whole herd before him undulated like a 
vast monotonous sea. He continued on across the arroyo 
and past the corral until the blinding and penetrating cloud 
of dust, raised by the plunging hoofs of the moving mass 
before him, caused him to stop. A dull reverberation oii 
the plain—a sound that at first might have been attributed 
to a passing earthquake—now became so distinct that he 
turned. Not twenty yards behind him rose the advance 
wall of another vast, tumultuous sea of tossing horns and 


/ 


174 Gabriel Conroy. 

undulating backs that had been slowly following his retreat • 
He had forgotten that he was surrounded. 

The nearest were now so close upon him that he could 
observe them separately. They were neither large, power¬ 
ful, vindictive, nor ferocious. On the contrary, they were 
thin, wasted, haggard, anxious beasts, economically equipped 
and gotten up, the better to wrestle with a six mcnilis' 
drought, occasional famine, and the incessant buffeting of the 
wind—wild and untamable, but their staring eyes and nerv¬ 
ous limbs expressed only wonder and curiosity. And when 
he ran toward them with a shout, they turned, as had the 
others, file by file, and rank by rank, and in a moment were, 
like the others, in full retreat Rather, let me say, retreated 
as the others had retreated, for when he faced about again 
to retrace his steps toward the Mission, he fronted the bossy 
bucklers and inextricable horns of those he had driven only 
a few moments ago before him. They had availed them¬ 
selves of his diversion with the rear-guard to return. 

With the rapidity of a quick intellect and swift percep¬ 
tions, Arthur saw at once the resistless logic and utter 
hopelessness of his situation. The inevitable culmination 
of all this was only a question of time—and a very brief 
period. Would it be sufficient to enable him to reach the 
casa ? No ! Could he regain the corral ? Perhaps. Be¬ 
tween it and himself already were a thousand cattle. 
Would they continue to retreat as he advanced ? Possibly. 
But would he be overtaken meanwhile by those in his 
rear? 

He answered the question himself by drawing from his 
waistcoat pocket his only weapon, a small “ Derringer,” 
and taking aim at the foremost bull. The shot took 
effect in the animal’s shoulder, and he fell upon his knees. 
As Arthur had expected, his nearer comrades stopped 
tnd sniffed at their helpless companion. But, as Arthui 


The Bulls of the Blessed Trinity, 175 

had not expected, the eager crowd pressing behind over* 
bore them and their wounded brother, and in another 
instant the unfortunate animal was prostrate and his life 
beaten out by the trampling hoofs of the resistless, blind, 
and eager crowd that followed. With a terrible intuition 
that it was a foreshadowing of his own fate, Arthur turned 
in the direction of the corral^ and ran for his very life ! 

As he ran he was conscious that the act precipitated the 
inevitable catastrophe—but he could think of nothing better. 
As he ran, he felt, from the shaking of the earth beneath his 
feet, that the act had once more put the whole herd in 
equally active motion behind him. As he ran, he noticed 
that the cattle before him retreated with something of his 
own precipitation. But as he ran, he thought of nothing 
but Ae awful fate that was following him, and the thought 
spurred him to an almost frantic effort. I have tried to 
make the reader understand that Arthur was quite inacces¬ 
sible to any of those weaknesses which mankind regard as 
physical cowardice. In the defence of what he believed to 
be an intellectual truth, in the interests of his pride or his 
self-love, or in a moment of passion, he would have faced 
death with unbroken fortitude and calmness. But to be 
the victim of an accident; to be the lamentable sequel of a 
logical succession of chances, without motive or purpose \ 
to be sacrificed for nothing—without proving or disprov¬ 
ing anything; to be trampled to death by idiotic beasts, 
who had not even the instincts of passion or revenge to 
justify them ; to die the death of an ignorant tramp, or any 
negligent clown—a death that had a ghastly ludicrousness 
in its method, a death that would leave his body a shapeless, 
indistinguishable, unrecognisable clod, which affection could 
not idealise nor friendship reverence,—all this brought a 
horror with it so keen, so exquisite, so excruciating, that 
the fastidious, proud, intellectual being fleeing from it might 


I Gabriel Conroy. 

have been the veriest dastard that ever turned his back on 
danger. And superadded to it was a superstitious thought 
that for its very horror, perhaps, it was a retribution for 
something that he dared not contemplate ! 

And it was then that his strength suddenly flagged. Hu 
senses began to reel. His breath, which had kept paf.e 
with the quick beating of his heart, intermitted, hesitated, 
was lost! Above the advancing thunder of hoofs behind 
him, he thought he heard a woman’s voice. He knew now 
he was going crazy; he shouted and fell; he rose again 
and staggered forward a few steps and fell again. It was 
over now! A sudden sense of some strange, subtle per¬ 
fume, beating up through the acrid, smarting dust of the 
plain, that choked his mouth and blinded his eyes, came 
swooning over him. And then the blessed interposition of 
unconsciousness and peace. 

He struggled back to life again with the word “ Philip ” 
in his ears, a throbbing brow, and the sensation of an effort 
to do something that was required of him. Of all his ex¬ 
perience of the last few moments only the perfume remained. 
He was lying alone in the dry bed of the arrayo; on the 
bank a horse was standing, and above him bent the dark 
face and darker eyes of Donna Dolores. 

“ Try to recover sufficient strength to mount that horse,” 
she said, after a pause. 

It was a woman before him. With that innate dread 
which all masculine nature has of exhibiting physical weak¬ 
ness before a weaker sex, Arthur struggled to rise without 
the assistance offered by the small hand of his friend. 
That, however, even at that crucial moment, he so far 
availed himself of it, as to press it, I fear was the fact. 

“You came to my assistance alone?” asked Arthur, as 
he struggled to his feet. 

“Why not? We are equal now, Don Arturo,” sai<J 


The Bulls of the Blessed Trinity, 177 

Donna Dolores, with a dazzling smile. “ I saw you from 
my window. You were rash—pardon me—foolish ! The 
oldest vaquero never ventures a foot upon these plains. 
But come; you shall ride with me. There was no time to 
saddle another horse, and I thought you would not care 
to let others know of your adventure. Am I right ? ” 

There was a slight dimple of mischief in her cheek, and 
a quaint sparkle in her dark eye, as she turned her question¬ 
ing gaze on Arthur. He caught her hand and raised it 
respectfully to his lips. 

“ You are wise as you are brave, Donna Dolores.” 

“ We shall see. But at present you must believe that I 
am right, and do as I say. Mount that horse—I will help 
you if you are too weak—and—leave a space for me behind 
you!” 

Thus adjured, Arthur leaped into the saddle. If his 
bones had been broken instead of being bruised, he would 
still have found strength for that effort. In another instant 
Donna Dolores’ little foot rested on his, and she lightly 
mounted behind him. 

“ Home now. Hasten; we will be there before any one 
will know it,” she said, as she threw one arm around his 
waist, with superb unconsciousness. 

Arthur lifted the rein and dropped his heels into the 
flanks of the horse. In five minutes—the briefest, as it 
seemed to him, he had ever passed—they were once more 
within the walls of the Blessed Trinity. 


BOOK IV. 


DRIFTING. 


CHAPTER L 

MR. AND MRS. CONROY AT HOME. 

The manner in which One Horse Gulch received the news 
of Gabriel Conroy’s marriage was characteristic of that frank 
and outspoken community. Without entering upon the 
question of his previous shameless flirtation with Mrs. 
Markle—the baleful extent of which was generally unknown 
to the camp—the nearer objections were based upon the 
fact that the bride was a stranger and consequently an object 
of suspicion, and that Gabriel’s sphere of usefulness in a 
public philanthropic capacity would be seriously impaired 
and limited. His very brief courtship did not excite any sur¬ 
prise in a climate where the harvest so promptly followed 
the sowing, and the fact, now generally known, that it was 
he who saved the woman’s life after the breaking of the dam 
at Black Canon, was accepted as a sufficient reason for his 
success in that courtship. It may be remarked here that a 
certain grim disbelief in feminine coyness obtained at One 
Horse Gulch. That the conditions of life there were as 
near the perfect and original condition of mankind as could 
be found anywhere, and that the hollow shams of society 


Mr, and Mrs, Conroy at Home, 179 

and weak artifices of conventionalism could not exist in 
that sincere atmosphere, were two beliefs that One Horse 
Gulch never doubted. 

Possibly there was also some little envy of Gabriel’s suc¬ 
cess, an envy not based upon any evidence of his superior 
courage, skill, or strength, but only of the peculiar “ luck,” 
opportunity, or providence, that had enabled him to turn 
certain qualities very common to One Horse Gulch to such 
favourable account. 

“Toe think,” said Jo. Briggs, “ thet I was allowin’—only 
thet very afternoon—to go up that canon arter game, and 
didn’t go from some derned foolishness or other, and 
yer’s Gabe, hevin’ no call to go thar, jest comes along, 
accidental like, and, dern my skin! but he strikes onto a 
purty gal and a wife the first lick ! ” 

“ Thet’s so,” responded Barker, “ it’s all luck. Thar’s 
thet Cy. Dudley, with plenty o’ money and wantin’ a wife 
bad, and ez is goin’ to Sacramento to-morrow to prospect 
fur one, and he hez been up and down that canon time 
outer mind, and no dam ever said ‘ break ’ to him ! No, 
sir ! Or take my own case; on’y last week when the 
Fiddletown coach went over the bank at Dry Creek, wasn’t 1 
the fust man thar ez cut the leaders adrift and bruk open 
the coach-door and helped out the passengers ? And wot 
passengers? Six Chinymen by Jinks—and a Greaser! 
Thet’s my luck.” 

There were few preliminaries to the marriage. The con¬ 
sent of Oily was easily gained. As an act of aggression 
and provocation towards Mrs. Markle, nothing could offer 
greater inducements. The superior gentility of the stranger, 
the fact of her being a stranger, and the expeditiousness of 
the courtship coming so hard upon Mrs. Markle’s fickleness 
commended itself to the child’s sense of justice and femi¬ 
nine retaliation. For herself^ Oily hardly knew if she liked 


18o Gabriel Conroy. 

her prospective sister; she was gentle, she was kind, she 
seemed to love Gabriel—but Oily was often haunted by a 
vague instinct that Mrs. Markle would have been a better 
match—and with true feminine inconsistency she hated hei 
the more for it. Possibly she tasted also something of the 
disappointment of the baffled match-maker in the depths oi 
her childish consciousness. 

It may be fairly presumed that the former Mrs. Devarges 
had confided to no one but her lawyer the secret of her 
assumption of the character of Grace Conroy. How far or 
how much more she had confided to that gentleman was 
known only to himself; he kept her secret, whatever might 
have been its extent, and received the announcement of 
her intended marriage to Gabriel with the superior smile 
of one to whom all things are possible from the unpro¬ 
fessional sex. 

“Now that you are about to enter into actual posses¬ 
sion,” said Mr. Maxwell, quietly buttoning up his pocket 
again, “ I suppose you will not require my services immedi • 
ately.” 

It is said, upon what authority I know not, that Madame 
Devarges blushed slightly, heaved the least possible sigh as 
she shook her head and said, “ I hope not,” with an evident 
sincerity that left her legal adviser in some slight astonish¬ 
ment. 

How far her intended husband participated in this / 
confidence I do not know. He was evidently proud of 
alluding to her in the few brief days of his courtship as the 
widow of the “great Doct )r Devarges,” and his knowledge 
of her former husband to some extent mitigated in the 
public mind the apparent want of premeditation in the 
courtship. 

“To think of the artfulness of that man,” said Sal, con 
fidentially, to Mrs. Markle, “and he a-gettin’ up sympathy 


Mr, and Mrs, Co 7 iroy at Home, 181 

about his sufferin’s at Starvation Camp, and all the while 
a-carryin’ on with the widder of one o’ them onfortunets. 
No wonder that man was queer ! Wot you allowed in the 
innocents o’ yer heart was bashfulness was jest conscience. 
I never let on to ye, Mrs. Markle, but I alius noticed thet 
thet Gabe never could meet my eye.” 

The flippant mind might have suggested that as both of 
Miss Sarah’s eyes were afflicted with a cast, there might 
have been a physical impediment to this exchange of frank¬ 
ness, but then the flippant mind never enjoyed the com 
fidence of this powerful young woman. 

It was a month after the wedding, and Mrs. Markle was 
sitting alone in her parlour, whither she had retired after 
the professional duties of supper were over, when the front 
door opened, and Sal entered. It was Sunday evening, and 
Sal had been enjoying the brief recreation of gossip with 
the neighbours, and, as was alleged by the flippant mind 
before alluded to, some coquettish conversation and dalliance 
with certain youth of One Horse Gulch. 

Mrs. Markle watched her handmaid slowly remove an 
immense straw “ flat ” trimmed with tropical flowers, and 
then proceed to fold away an enormous plaid shawl which 
represented quite another zone, and then her curiosity got 
the better of her prudence. 

“ Well, and how did ye find the young couple gettin’ on, 
Sal ? ” 

Sal too well understood the value of coyly-withheld in¬ 
formation to answer at once, and with the instincts of a true 
artist, she affected to misunderstand her mistress. When 
Mrs. Markle had repeated her question Sal replied, with a 
sarcastic laugh— 

“ Axin yer pardin fur manners, but you let on about the 
young couple, and she forty if she’s anythin’.” 

“ Oh, no, Sal,” remonstrated Mrs. Markle, with reproach* 


182 Gabriel Conroy, 

ful accents, and yet a certain self-satisfaction j “you^re 
mistaken, sure.” 

“ Well,” said Sal, breathlessly slapping her hands on her 
lap, “ if pearl powder and another woman’s har and fancy 
doin’s beggiles folks, it ain’t Sal ez is among the folks fooled. 
No, Sue Markle. Ef I ain’t lived long enough with a 
woman ez owns to thirty-three and hez—ef it wuz my last 
words and God is my jedge—the neck and arms of a gal of 
sixteen, not to know when a woman is trying to warm over 
the scraps of forty year with a kind o’ hash o’ twenty, then 
Sal Clark ain’t got no eyes, thet’s all.” 

Mrs. Markle blushed slightly under the direct flattery of 
Sal, and continued— 

“Some folks says she’s purty.” 

“ Some men’s meat is other men’s pizen,” responded Sal, 
sententiously, unfastening an enormous black velvet zone, 
and apparently permitting her figure to fall into instant 
ruin. 

“ How did they look ? ” said Mrs. Markle, after a pause, 
recommencing her darning, which she had put down. 

“Well, purty much as I allowed they would from the 
first. Thar ain’t any love wasted over thar. My opinion 
is thet he’s sick of his bargin. She runs the house and 
ev’ry thing that’s in it. Jest look at the critter ! She’s just 
put that thar Gabe up to prospecting all along the ledge 
here, and that fool’s left his diggin’s and hez been running 
hither and yon, making ridiklus holes all over the hill jest 
to satisfy thet woman, and she ain’t satisfied neither. Take 
my word for it. Sue Markle, thar’s suthin’ wrong thar. And 
then thar’s thet Oily ”- 

Mrs. Markle raised her eyes quickly, and put down her 
work. “ Oily,” she repeated, with great animation—“ poor 
little Oily ! what’s gone of her ? ” 

“ Well,” said Sal, with an impatient toss of her head, “ } 


Mr, and Mrs, Conroy at Home, 183 

never did see what thar wuz in that peart and sassy piece 
for any one to take to—leastwise a woman with a child of 
her own. The airs and graces thet thet Oily would put on 
wuz too much. Why, she hedn’t been nigh us for a month, 
and the day afore the wedding what does that limb do but 
meet me and sez, sez she, ‘ Sal, ye kin tell Mrs. Markle as 
my brother Gabe ez goin’ to marry a lady—a lady,’ sez she. 
‘ Thar ain’t goin’ to be enny Pikes about our cabin.’ And 
thet child only eight years ! Oh, git out thar! I ain’t no 
patience! ” 

To the infinite credit of a much abused sex, be it recorded 
that Mrs. Markle overlooked the implied slur, and asked— 
But what about Oily ? ” 

*‘I mean to say,” said Sal, “thet thet child hain’t noplace 
in thet house, and thet Gabe is jest thet weak and mean 
spirited ez to let thet woman have her own way. No 
wonder thet the child was crying when I met her out in the 
woods yonder.” 

Mrs. Markle instantly flushed, and her black eyes snapped 
ominously. “ I should jest like to ketch—” she began quickly, 
and then stopped and looked at her companion. “Sal,’’ 
she said, with swift vehemence, “ I must see thet child.” 

“ How ? ” 

The word in Sal’s dialect had a various, large, and 
catholic significance. Mrs. Markle understood it, and re¬ 
peated briefly-— 

“ Oily—I must see her—right off*! ” 

“ Which ? ” continued Sal. 

“ Here,” replied Mrs. Markle; “ anywhere. Fetch hef 
rhen ye kin.” 

“She won’t come.” 

“ Then I’ll go to her,” said Mrs. Markle, with a sudden 
and characteristic determination that closed the conversation 
and sent Sal back viciously to her unwashed dishes. 


184 Gabriel Conroy, 

Whatever might have been the truth of Sabs report, there 
was certainly no general external indication of the facts. 
The newly-married couple were, to all appearances, as happy 
and contented, and as enviable to the masculine inhabitants 
of One Horse Gulch, as any who had ever built a nest within 
its pastoral close. If a majority of Gabriel’s visitors were 
gentlemen, it was easily attributed to the preponderance of 
males in the settlement If these gentlemen w^ere unani¬ 
mously extravagant in their praise of Mrs. Conroy, it was as 
easily attributable to the same cause. That Gabriel should 
dig purposeless holes over the hill-side, that he should for 
the time abandon his regular occupation in his little modest 
claim in the canon, was quite consistent with the ambition 
of a newly-married man. 

A few evenings after this, Gabriel Conroy was sitting 
alone by the hearth of that new house, which popular 
opinion and the tastes of Mrs. Conroy seemed to think was 
essential to his new condition. It was a larger, more ambi¬ 
tious, more expensive, and perhaps less comfortable dwell¬ 
ing than the one in which he has been introduced to the 
reader. It was projected upon that credit which a man of 
family was sure to obtain in One Horse. Gulch, where the 
immigration and establishment of families and household 
centres were fostered even at pecuniary risks. It contained, 
beside the chambers, the gratuitous addition of a parlour, 
which at this moment was adorned and made attractive by 
the presence of Mrs. Conroy, who was entertaining a few 
visitors that, under her attractions, had prolonged their 
sitting until late. When the laugh had ceased and the 
door closed on the last lingering imbecile, Mrs. Conroy 
returned to the sitting-room. It was dark, for Gabriel had 
not lighted a caudle yet, and he was occupying his favour¬ 
ite seat and attitude before the fire. 

“ Why ! are you there ? ” said Mrs. Conroy, gaily. 


Mr. and Mrs, Conroy at Home. 185 

Gabriel looked up, and with that seriousness which was 
habitual to him, replied— 

“Yes” 

Mrs. Conroy approached her lord and master, and ran 
her thin, claw-like fingers through his hair with married 
audacity. He caught them, held them for a moment with 
a kindly, caressing, and yet slightly embarrassed air that 
the lady did not like. She withdrew them quickly. 

“ Why didn’t you come into the parlour ? ” she said, 
examining him curiously. 

“I didn’t admire to to-night,” returned Gabriel, with 
grave simplicity, “ and I reckoned you’d get on as well 
without me.” 

There was not the slightest trace of bitterness nor 
aggrieved sensitiveness in his tone or manner, and although 
Mrs. Conroy eyed him sharply for any latent spark of 
jealousy, she was forced to admit to herself that it did not 
exist in the quiet, serious man before her. Vaguely aware 
of some annoyance in his wife’s face, Gabriel reached out 
his arm, and, lightly taking her around her waist, drew her 
to his knee. But the very act was so evidently a recogni¬ 
tion of a certain kind of physical and moral weakness 
in the creature before him—so professional—so, as Mrs. 
Conroy put it to herself,—“ like as if I were a sick man,” 
that her irritation was not soothed. She rose quickly and 
seated herself on the other side of the fireplace. With the 
same implied toleration Gabriel had already displayed, he 
now made no attempt to restrain her. 

Mrs. Conroy did not pout as another woman might have 
done. She only smiled a haggard smile that deepened the 
line of her nostril into her cheek, and pinched her thin, 
ftraight nose. Then she said, looking at the fire— 

“ Ain’t you well ? ” 

“ I reckon not—not overly well.” 


l86 Gabriel Conroy, 

There was a silence, both looking at the fire. 

“ You don’t get anything out of that hill-side ? asked 
Mrs. Conroy at last, pettishly. 

“ No,” said Gabriel 

“ You have prospected all over the ridge ? ” continued 
the woman, impatiently. 

“All over!” 

“ And you don’t find anything ? 

“ Nothin’,” said Gabriel “ Nary. Thet is,” he added 
with his usual cautious deliberation, “ thet is, nothin’ o’ any 
account. The gold, ef there is any, lies lower down in the 
gulch, whar I used to dig. But I kept at it jest to satisfy 
your whim. You know, July, it was a whim of yours,” he 
continued, with a certain gentle deprecatoriness of manner. 

A terrible thought flashed suddenly upon Mrs. Conroy. 
Could Dr. Devarges have made a mistake ? Might he not 
have been delirious or insane when he wrote of the treasure ? 
Or had the Secretary deceived her as to its location ? A 
swift and sickenihg sense that all she had gained, or was to 
gain, from her scheme, was the man before her—and that 
he did not love her as other men had—asserted itself through 
her trembling consciousness. Mrs. Conroy had already 
begun to fear that she loved this husband, and it was with 
a new sense of yearning and dependence that she in her 
turn looked deprecatingly and submissively into his face 
and said— 

“ It was only a whim, dear—I dare say a foolish one. 
It’s gone now. Don’t mind it! ” 

“ I don’t,” said Gabriel, simply. 

Mrs. Conroy winced. 

“ I thought you looked disappointed,” she said after a 
pause. 

“ It ain’t that I was thinkin’ on, July; it^s Oily,” said 
Gabriel. 


Mr, and Mrs, Conroy at Home. 187 

There is a limit even to a frightened woman^s sub¬ 
mission. 

“ Of course,” she said, sharply; ** Oily, Oily again and 
always. I ought to have remembered that.” 

“ Thet’s so,” said Gabriel with the same exasperating 
quiet. “ I was reckonin’ jest now, ez there don’t seem to 
be any likeliness of you and Oily’s gettin’ on together, you’d 
better separate. Thar ain’t no sense goin’ on this way, 
July—no sense et all. And the worst o’ the hull thing ez 
thet Oily ain’t gettin’ no kinder good outer it, no way I ” 

Mrs. Conroy was very pale and dangerously quiet as Mr. 
Conroy went on. 

“ I’ve allers allowed to send that child to school, but she 
don’t keer to go. She’s thet foolish, thet Oily is, thet she 
doesn’t like to leave me, and I reckon I’m thet foolish too 
thet I don’t like to hev her go. The only way to put things 
square ez this ”- 

Mrs. Conroy turned and fixed her grey eyes upon her 
husband, but she did not speak. 

“You’d better go away,” continued Gabriel, quietly, “for 
a while. I’ve heerd afore now that it’s the reg’lar thing 
fur a bride to go away and visit her mother. You hain’t 
got no mother,” said Gabriel thoughtfully, “hev ye ?—that’s 
bad. But you was a sayin’ the other day suthin’ about some 
business you had down at ’Frisco. Now it would be about 
\he nateral sort o’ thing for ye to go thar fur two or three 
months, jest till things get round square with Oily and 
me.” 

It is probable that Gabriel was the only man from whom 
Mrs, Conroy could have received this humiliating proposi¬ 
tion without interrupting him with a burst of indignation. 
Yet she only turned a rigid face towards the fire again with 
■ hysterical laugh. 

“ Why limit my stay to two or three months ? ” she said. 


I 



188 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ Well, it might be four,” said Gabriel, simply—it would 
give me and Oily a longer time to get things in shape.” 

Mrs. Conroy rose and walked rigidly to her husband’s side. 

“ What,” she said huskily, “ what if I were to refuse ? ” 

Gabriel looked as if this suggestion would not have been 
startling or inconsistent as an abstract possibility in woman, 
but said nothing. 

*‘What,” continued Mrs. Conroy, more rapidly and 
huskily, “ what if I were to tell you and that brat to go! 
What,” she said, suddenly raising her voice to a thin high 
soprano, “ what if I were to turn you both out of this 
house —my house ! off this land —my land ! Eh ? eh ? eh ? ” 
she almost screamed, emphasising each interrogatory with 
her thin hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, in a desperate but im¬ 
potent attempt to shake him. 

“ Certingly, certingly,” said Gabriel calmly. “ But thar’s 
somebody at the door, July,” he continued quietly, as he 
rose slowly and walked into the hall 

His quick ear had detected a knocking without, above 
the truculent pitch of Mrs. Conroy’s voice. He threw open 
the door, and disclosed Oily and Sal standing upon the 
threshold. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that Sal was first to recover 
the use of that noble organ, the tongue. 

“ With chills and ager in every breath—it’s an hour if it’s 
five minutes that we’ve stood here,” she began, “ pounding 
at that door. ‘ You’re interrupting the young couple, Sal,* 
sez I, ‘ cornin’ yer this time o’ night, breakin’ in, so to speak, 
on the holiest confidences,’ sez I; ‘ but it’s business, and 
onless you hev thet to back you, Sarah Clark,’ I sez, ‘ and 
you ain’t a woman ez ever turned her back on thet or them, 
you ain’t no call there.’ But I was to fetch this child home, 
Mrs. Conroy,” continued Sal, pushing her way into the little 
sitting-room, “ and ”- 


Mr, and Mrs. Conroy at Home, 189 

She paused, for the room was vacant. Mrs. Conroy had 
disappeared. 

“I thought I heerd’'- said Sal, completely taken 

aback. 

“ It was only Gabe,” said Oily, with the ready mendacity 
of swift feminine tact. “ I told you so. Thank you, Sal, 
for seeing me home. Good night, Sal,” and, with a dex¬ 
terity that smote Gabriel into awesome and admiring silence, 
she absolutely led the breathless Sal to the door and closed 
it upon her before that astonished female could recover her 
speech. 

Then she returned quietly, took off her hat and shawl, and 
taking the unresisting hand of her brother, led him back to 
his former seat by the fire. Drawing a low stool in front 
of him, she proceeded to nestle between his knees—an old 
trick of hers—and once more taking his hand, stroked it 
between her brown fingers, looked up into his face, and 
said— 

** Dear old Gabe !" 

The sudden smile that irradiated Gabriel’s serious face 
would have been even worse provocation to Mrs. Conroy 
than his previous conduct 

“What was the matter, Gabe?” said Oily; “what was 
she saying when we came in ? ” 

Gabriel had not, since the entrance of his sister, thought 
of Mrs. Conroy’s parting speech and manner. Even now 
it«5 full significance did not appear to have reached him. 

“ I disremember, Oily,” he replied, looking down into 
Oily’s earnest eyes, “ suthin’ or other ; she was techy, thet’s 
all.” 

“ But wot did she mean by saying that the house and 
lands V as hers ? ” persisted the child. 

“ Married folks, Oily,” said Gabriel, with the lazy, easy 
manner of vast matrimonial experience, “ married folks hev 


190 Gabriel Conroy. 

little jokes and ways o’ thar own. Bein* onmarried your¬ 
self, ye don’t know. ‘ With all my worldly goods I thee 
endow,’ thet’s all—thet’s what she meant, Oily. ‘ With all 
my worldly goods I thee endow.’ Did you hev a good time 
down there ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Oily. 

‘‘ You’ll hev a nice time here soon. Oily,” said Gabriel. 

Oily looked incredulously across the hall toward the door 
of Mrs. Conroy’s chamber. 

** Thet’s it. Oily,” said Gabriel, “ Mrs. Conroy’s goin’ to 
’Frisco to see some friends. She’s thet bent on goin’ thet 
nothin’ ’il stop her. Ye see, Oily, it’s the fashion fur new 
married folks to kinder go way and visit absent and 
sufferin’ friends. Thar’s them little ways about the married 
state, that, bein’ onmarried yourself, you don’t saba But 
it’s all right, she’s goin’. Bein’ a lady, and raised, so to 
speak, ’mong fashi’n’ble people, she’s got to folly the 
fashin. She’s goin’ for three months, mebbe four. I dis- 
remember now wot’s the fashi’n’ble time. But she’ll do it, 
Oily.” 

Oily cast a penetrating look at her brother. 

“ She ain’t goin’ on my account, Gabe ? ” 

“ Lord love the child, no ! Wot put thet into your 
head, Oily ? Why,” said Gabriel with cheerful mendacity, 
“she’s been takin’ a shine to ye o’ late. On’y to-night 
5he was wonderin’ whar you be.” 

As if to give credence to his words, and much to his in¬ 
ward astonishment, the door of Mrs. Conroy’s room opened, 
and the lady herself, with a gracious smile on her lips and 
A brightly beaming eye, albeit somewhat reddened around 
the lids, crossed the hall, and, going up to Oily, kissed her 
round cheek. 

“ I thought it was your voice, and although I was just 
going to bed,” she added gaily, with a slightly apologetic 


Treasure Found and Lost. 191 

look at her charming dishabille, “ I had to come in and be 
sure it was you. And where have you been, you naughty 
girl ? Do you know I shall be dreadfully jealous of this 
Mrs. Markle. Come and tell me all about her. Come. 
You shall stay with me to-night, and wevon’t let brother 
Gabe hear our little secrets—shall we ? Come ! 

And before the awe-struck Gabriel could believe his own 
senses she had actually whisked the half-pleased, half- 
frightened child into her own room, and he was left standing 
alone. Nor was he the less amazed, although relieved of a 
certain undefined anxiety for the child, when, a moment 
later, Oily herself thrust her curly head out of the door, and, 
calling out, Good-night, old Gabe,” with a mischievous 
accent, shut and locked the door in his face. For a 
moment Gabriel stood petrified on his own hearthstone. 
Was he mistaken, and had Mrs. Conroy’s anger actually 
been nothing but a joke ? Was Oily really sincere in her 
dislike of his wife ? There was but one apparent solution 
to these various and perplexing problems, and that was the 
general incomprehensibility of the sex. 

“ The ways o’ woman is awful onsartin,” said Gabriel, as 
he sought the solitary little room which had been set apart 
for Oily, “ and somehow I ain’t the man ez hez the gift o’ 
findin’ them out.” 

And with these reflections he went apologetically, yet, to 
a certain extent, contentedly, as was his usual habit, to bed. 


CHAPTER II. 

IN WHICH THE TREASURE IS FOUND—AND LOST. 

As no word has been handed down of the conversation 
that night between Oily and her sister-in-law, I fear the 
masculine reader must view their subsequent conduct in 


192 Gabriel Conroy. 

the light of Gabriel’s abstract proposition. The feminine 
reader—to whose well-known sense of justice and readiness 
to acknowledge a characteristic weakness, I chiefly commend 
these pages—will of course require no further explanation, 
and will be quite ready to believe that the next morning 
Oily and Mrs. Conroy were apparently firm friends, and 
that Gabriel was incontinently snubbed by both of these 
ladies as he deserved. 

“You don’t treat July right,” said Oily, one morning, to 
Gabriel, during five minutes that she had snatched from 
the inseparable company of Mrs. Conroy. 

Gabriel opened his eyes in wonder. “I hain’t been 
^round the house much, because I allowed you and July 
didn’t want my kempany,” he began apologetically, “ and 
ef it’s shortness of provisions, I’ve fooled away so much 
time. Oily, in prospectin’ that ledge that I had no time to 
clar up and get any dust. I reckon, may be the pork 
bar’l is low. But I’ll fix thet straight soon, Oily, soon.” 

“ But it ain’t thet, Gabe—it ain’t provisions—it’s—it’s— 
O ! you ain’t got no sabe ez a husband—thar!” burst out 
the direct Oily at last. 

Without the least sign of resentment, Gabriel looked 
thoughtfully at his sister. 

“Thet’s so—I reckon thet is the thing. Not hevin’ 
been married afore, and bein’, so to speak, strange and 
green-handed, like as not I don’t exactly come up to the 
views of a woman ez hez hed thet experience. And her 
husband a savang ! a savang ! Oily, and a lamed man.” 

“You’re as good as him!” ejaculated Oily, hastily, 
whose parts of speech were less accurately placed than her 
feelings, “and I reckon she loves you a heap better, Gabe. 
But you ain’t quite lovin’ enough,” she added, as Gabriel 
started. “Why, thar was thet young couple thet came up 
from Simpson’s last week, and stayed over at Mrs. Markle’s 


Treasure Found and Lost, 


193 


Thar was no end of the attentions thet thet man paid to 
thet thar woman—fixin’ her shawl, histin^ the winder and 
puttin’ it down, and askin’ after her health every five 

minnits—and they’d sit and sit, just like this”-here Oily, 

in the interests of domestic felicity, improvised the favourite 
attitude of the bridegroom, as far as the great girth of 
Gabriel’s waist and chest could be “ clipped ” by her small 
arms. 

** Wot! afore folks ? ” asked Gabriel, looking down a 
little shamefully on the twining arms of his sister. 

“Yes—in course—afore folks. Why, they want it to be 
known thet they’re married.” 

“Oily,” broke out Gabriel desperately, “your sister-in- 
law ain’t thet kind of a woman. She’d reckon thet kind o’ 
thing was low.” 

But Oily only replied by casting a mischievous look at her 
brother, shaking her curls, and with the mysterious admoni¬ 
tion, “ Try it! ” left him, and went back to Mrs. Conroy. 

Happily for Gabriel, Mrs. Conroy did not offer an oppor¬ 
tunity for the exhibition of any tenderness on Gabriel’s 
part Although she did not make any allusion to the past, 
and even utterly ignored any previous quarrel, she still 
preserved a certain coy demeanour toward him, that, while 
it relieved him of an onerous duty, very greatly weakened 
his faith in the infallibility of Oily’s judgment. When, out 
of respect to that judgment, he went so far as to throw his 
arms ostentatiously around his wife’s waist one Sunday, 
while perambulating the single long public street of One 
Horse Gulch, and that lady, with great decision, quietly 
slipped out of his embrace, he doubted still more. 

“I did it on account o’ wot you said, OLy, and darn my 
skin if she seemed to like it at all, and even the boys 
bangin’ around seemed to think it was queer. Jo Hobsou 
inickered right out.” 

VOL. IV. 


N 


194 Gabriel Conroy. 

‘‘When was it?” said Oily.. 

“ Sunday.” 

Oily, sharply—“ Where ? ” 

Gabriel—“ On Main Street. 

Oily, apostrophising heaven with her blue eyes—“ E( 
thar ever was a blunderin’ mule, Gabe, it’s you ! ” 

Gabriel, mildly and thoughtfully—“ Thet’s so.” 

Howbeit, some kind of a hollow truce was patched up 
between these three belligerents, and Mrs. Conroy did not 
go to San Francisco on business. It is presumed that the 
urgency of her affairs there was relieved by correspondence, 
for during the next two weeks she expressed much anxiety 
on the arrival of the regular tri-weekly mails. And one 
day it brought her not only a letter, but an individual of 
some importance in this history. 

He got down from the Wingdam coach amid consider¬ 
able local enthusiasm. Apart from the fact that it was 
well known that he was a rich San Francisco banker and 
capitalist, his brusque, sharp energy, his easy, sceptical 
familiarity and general contempt for and ignoring of every¬ 
thing but the practical and material, and, above all, his 
reputation for success, which seemed to make that success 
a wholesome business principle rather than good fortune, 
had already fascinated the passengers who had listened to 
his curt speech and half oracular axioms. They had for¬ 
given dogmatisms voiced in such a hearty manner, and 
emphasised possibly with a slap on the back of the listener. 
He had already converted them to his broad materialism— 
less, perhaps, by his curt rhetoric than by the logic of his 
habitual business success, and the respectability that it 
commanded. It was easy to accept scepticism from a 
man who evidently had not suffered by it. Radicalism 
and democracy are much more fascinating to us when the 
apostle is in comfortable case and easy circumstances, than 


Treasure Found and Lost. 195 

when he is clad in fustian, and consistently out of a situa¬ 
tion. Human nature thirsts for the fruit of the tree of the 
knowledge of good and evil, but would prefer to receive it 
from the happy owner of a latch-key to the Garden of 
Eden, rather than from the pilferer who had just been 
ejected from the premises. 

It is probable, however, that the possessor of these 
admirable qualities had none of that fine scorn for a man¬ 
kind accessible to this weakness which at present fills the 
breast of the writer, and, I trust, the reader, of these pages. 
If he had, I doubt if he would have been successful. Like 
a true hero, he was quite unconscious of the quality of his 
heroism, and utterly unable to analyse it. So that, without 
any previous calculations or pre-arranged plan, he managed 
to get rid of his admirers, and apply himself to the business 
he had in hand without either wilfully misleading the^^ublic 
of One Horse Gulch, or giving the slightest intimarton of 
what that real business was. That the general interests of 
One Horse Gulch had attracted the attention of this power¬ 
ful capitalist—that he intended to erect a new Hotel, or 
“start” an independent line of stage-coaches from Sacra¬ 
mento, were among the accepted theories. Everybody 
offered him vast and gratuitous information, and out of 
the various facts and theories submitted to him he gained 
the particular knowledge he required without asking for it. 
Given a reputation for business shrewdness and omnipre¬ 
sence in any one individual, and the world will speedily 
place him beyond the necessity of using them. 

And so in a casual, general way, the stranger was shown 
over the length and breadth and thickness and present 
and future of One Horse Gulch. When he had reached 
the farther extremity of the Gulch he turned to his escort 
—“ I’ll make the inquiry you ask now.” 

“ How?” 


196 Gabrie^onroy. 

** By telegraph—if you’ll take it.” 

He tore a leaf from a memorandum-book and wrote a 
few lines. 

And you ? ” 

“ Oh, ril look around here—I suppose there’s not much 
beyond this ? ” 

** No ; the next claim is Gabriel Conroy’s.” 

“ Not much account, I reckon ?” 

“ No ? It pays him grub ! ” 

“ Well, dine with me at three o’clock, when and where 
you choose—you know best. Invite whom you like. 
Good-bye ! ” And the great man’s escort, thus dismissed, 
departed, lost in admiration of the decisive promptitude 
and liberality of his guest. 

Left to himself, the stranger turned his footsteps in the 
direction of Gabriel Conroy’s claim. Had he been an 
admirer of Nature, or accessible to any of those influences 
which a contemplation of wild scenery is apt to produce in 
weaker humanity, he would have been awed by the gradual 
transition of a pastoral landscape to one of uncouth heroics. 
In a few minutes he had left the belt of sheltering pines 
and entered upon the ascent of a shadowless, scorched, 
and blistered mountain, that here and there in places of 
vegetation had put on the excrescences of scoria, or a 
singular eruption of crust, that, breaking beneath his feet 
in slippery grey powder, made his footing difficult and 
uncertain. Had he been possessed of a scientific eye, he 
would have noted here and there the evidences of volcanic 
action, in the sudden depressions, the abrupt elevations, 
the marks of disruption and upheaval, and the river-like 
flow of debris that protruded a black tongue into the valley 
below. But I am constrained to believe the stranger’s 
dominant impression was simply one of heat. Half-way 
ap the ascent he took off his coat and wiped his forehead 


Treasure Found and Lost, 197 

with his handkerchief. Nevertheless, certain peculiarities 
in his modes of progression showed him to be not un¬ 
familiar with mountain travel. Two or three times during 
the ascent he stopped, and, facing about, carefully re¬ 
surveyed the path beneath him. Slight as was the action, 
it was the unfailing sign of the mountaineer, who recognised 
that the other side of a mountain was as yet an undeter¬ 
mined quantity, and was prepared to retrace his steps if 
necessary. At the summit he paused and looked around 
him. 

Immediately at his feet the Gulch which gave its name 
to the settlement, and from which the golden harvest was 
gathered, broadened into a thickly wooded valley. Its 
quivering depths were suffused by the incense of odorous 
gums and balms liberated by the fierce heat of the noonday 
sun that rose to his face in soft, tremulous waves, and filled 
the air with its heated spices. Through a gap in the canon 
to the west, a faint, scarcely-distinguishable line of cloud 
indicated the coast range. North and south, higher hills 
arose heavily terraced with straight colonnades of pines, 
that made the vast black monolith on which he stood 
appear blacker and barer by contrast. Higher hills to 
the east—one or two peaks—and between them in the 
sunlight odd-looking, indistinct, vacant intervals—blanks 
in the landscape as yet not filled in with colour or expres¬ 
sion. Yet the stranger knew them to be snow, and for a 
few moments seemed fascinated—gazing at them with a 
fixed eye and rigid mouth, until, with an effort, he tore 
dim self away. 

Scattered over the summit were numerous holes that 
appeared to have been recently sunk. In one of them 
the stranger picked up a fragment of the crumbled rock, and 
examined it carelessly. Then he slowly descended the 
gentler slope towards the west, in the direction of a claim 


ig 8 Gabriel Conroy. 

•therein his quick eye had discovered a man at work. A 
walk of a few moments brought him to the bank of red clay, 
the heap of tailings, the wooden sluice-box, and the pan 
and shovel which constituted the appurtenances of an ordin¬ 
ary claim. As he approached nearer, the workman rose 
from the bank over which he was bending, and leaning on 
his pick, turned his face to the new-comer. His broad, 
athletic figure, his heavy blonde beard, and serious, perplexed 
eyes, were unmistakable. It was Gabriel Conroy. 

How are ye ? ” said the stranger, briskly extending a 
hand, which Gabriel took mechanically. “ You^re looking 
well! Recollectbut you don’t recollect me. Eh?” 
He laughed curtly, in a fashion as short and businesslike 
as his speech, and then fixed his eyes rather impatiently on 
the hesitating Gabriel. 

Gabriel could only stare, and struggle with a tide of thick¬ 
coming remembrances. He looked around him; the sun was 
beating down on the old familiar objects, everything was 
unchanged—and yet this face, this voice. 

“ I am here on a matter of business,” continued the 
stranger briskly, dismissing the question of recognition as 
one unessential to the business on hand—“ and—what have 
you got to propose ? ” He leaned lightly against the bank 
and supported himself by thrusting Gabriel’s pickaxe 
against the bank, as he waited a reply. 

“It’s Peter Dumphy,” said Gabriel, in a awe-stricken 
voice. 

“Yes. You recollect me now I Thought you would. 
It’s five years and over—ain’t it? Rough times them, 
Gabriel—warn’tthey? Eh! But_yi 7 «’/'^ lookin’well—doin’ 
well, too. Hey ? Well—what do you propose to do about 
this claim? Haven’t made up your mind—hey? Come 
then— I’ll make a proposition. First, I suppose your title’i 
all right, hey ? ” 


Treasure Found and Lost, 199 

It was so evident from Gabriel’s dazed manner that, 
apart from his astonishment at meeting Peter Dumphy, 
he did not know what he was talking about, that Dumphy 

paused. 

“ It’s about these specimens,” he added, eyeing Gabriel 
keenly, “ the specimens you sent me.” 

“ Wot specimens ? ” said Gabriel vaguely, still lost in the 
past. 

“ The ones your wife sent me—all the same thing, you 
know.” 

“ But it ain’t,” said Gabriel, with his old truthful direct¬ 
ness. “You better talk to her ’bout thet. Thet’s her look¬ 
out. I reckon now she did say suthin’,” continued Gabriel, 
meditatively, “about sendin’ rock to Frisco to be tested, 
but I didn’t somehow get to take an interest in it Least- 
ways, it’s her funeral. You’d better see her. 

It was Mr. Dumphy’s turn to be perplexed. In his perfect 
misapprehension of the character of the man before him, he 
saw only skilful business evasion under the guise of simpli¬ 
city. He remembered, moreover, that in the earlier days 
of his prosperity as Dumphy and Jenkins, Commission 
Merchants, he was himself in the habit of referring customers 
with whom he was not ready to treat, to Jenkins, very much 
|s he had just now been referred to Mrs. Conroy. 

“ Of course,” he said briskly; “ only I thought I’d save 
time, which is short with me to-day, by coming directly to 
you. May not have time to see her. But you can write.” 

“ Thet’s so,” said Gabriel, “p’Paps it’s just as well in the 
long run. Ef ye don’t see her, she’ll know it ain’t your 
fault. I’ll let on that much to her.” And having disposed 
of this unimportant feature of the interview, he continued, 
“ Ye haven’t heard nought o’ Grace—ye mind Grace? 
Dumphy!—a purty little girl ez was with me up thar. Ye ain’t 
heerd anything o’ her—nor seen her, may be—hev you?” 


200 Gabriel Conroy. 

Of course this question at such a moment was to Mr. 
Dumphy susceptible of only one meaning. It was that 
Mrs. Conroy had confessed everything to Gabriel, and that 
he wished to use Dumphy’s complicity in the deceit as a 
lever in future business transactions. Mr. Dumphy felt he 
had to deal with two consummate actors—one of whom 
was a natural hypocrite. For the first time in his life he 
was impatient of evil. We never admire truth and sincerity 
so highly as when we find it wanting in an adversary. 

“Ran off with some fellow, didn’t she? Yes, I remem¬ 
ber. You won’t see her again. It’s just as well for you! 
I’d call her dead, anyway.” 

Although Dumphy was convinced that Gabriel’s interest 
in the fate of his sister was hypocritical, he was not above 
a Christian hope that this might wound a brother’s feelings. 
He turned to go. 

“ Can’t you come back this way and hev a little talk 
about ol* times?” said Gabriel, warming toward Dumphy 
under the magic of old associations, and ignoring with 
provoking unconsciousness the sting of his last speech. 
“There’s Oily ez ’ud jest admire to see ye. Ye mind 
Oily ?—the baby, Grace’s little sister, growed a fine likely 
gal now. See yer,” continued Gabriel with sudden energy, 
putting down his pick and shovel, “ I’ll jess go over that 
with ye now.” 

“ No ! no! ” said Dumphy quickly. “ Busy ! Can’t! 
'Nother time ! Good-day; see you again some time. So 
long!’’and he hurriedly departed, retracing his steps until the 
claim and its possessor were lost in the intervening foliage. 

Then he paused, hesitated, and then striking across the 
summit of the hill, made his way boldly to Gabriel’s 
cottage. 

Either Mrs. Conroy was expecting him, or had detected 
him coming through the woods, for she opened the door to 


Treasure Found and Lost 


201 


him and took him into her little parlour with a graciousness 
of demeanour and an elaboration of toilet that would have 
been dangerous to any other man. But, like most men 
with a deservedly bad reputation among women, Mr. 
Dumphy always rigidly separated any weakness of gallantry 
from his business. 

“ Here only for a few moments. Sorry can’t stay longer. 
You’re looking well! ” said Mr. Dumphy. 

Mrs. Conroy said she had not expected the pleasure of a 
personal interview; Mr. Dumphy must be so busy always. 

“ Yes. But I like to bring good news myself. The 
specimens you sent have been assayed by first-class, reliable 
men. They’ll do. No gold—but eighty per cent, silver. 
Hey ! P’r’aps you expected it.” 

But Mr. Dumphy could see plainly from Mrs. Conroy’s 
eager face that she had not expected it. 

“ Silver,” she gasped—‘‘ eighty per cent! ” 

He was mystified, but relieved. It was evident that she 
had not consulted anybody else, and that he was first on 
the ground. So he said curtly— 

“ What do you propose ? ” 

“I don’t know,” began the lady. “I haven’t thought”- 

“Exactly!” interrupted Humphy. “Haven’t got any 
proposition. Excuse me—but” (taking out his watch) 
“time’s nearly up. Look here. Eighty per cent’s big 
thing I But silver .mine takes gold mine to run it All 
expense first—no profit till you get down. Works, smelting 
—cost twenty per cent Here’s my proposition. Put 
whole thing in joint-stock company; loo shares; five 
millions capital. You take fifty shares. Til take twenty- 
five—dispose of other twenty-five as I can. How’s that? 
Hey ? You can’t say • Well—think of it! ” 

But all Mrs. Conroy could think of was two and a half 
millions! It stared at her, stretching its gigantic ciphers 


202 Gabriel Conroy, 

across the room. It blazed in golden letters on cheques, 
—it rose on glittering piles of silver coin to the ceiling of 
the parlour. Yet she turned to him with a haggard face, 
and said— 

“ But this—this money—is only in prospective.” 

“ Cash your draft for the sum ten minutes after the 
stock’s issued. That’s business.” 

With this certainty Mrs. Conroy recovered herself. 

I will talk—with—my husband,” she said. 

Mr. Dumphy smiled—palpably, openly, and shamelessly. 
Mrs. Conroy coloured quickly, but not from the conscious¬ 
ness Mr. Dumphy attributed to her, of detected cunning. 
She had begun to be ashamed of the position she believed 
she occupied in this man’s eyes, and fearful that he should 
have discovered her husband’s indifference to her. 

“ I’ve already seen him,” said Mr. Dumphy quietly. 

The colour dropped from Mrs. Conroy’s cheeks. 

“ He knows nothing of this,” she said faintly. 

“Of course,” said Dumphy half contemptuously, “he 
said so; referred to you. That’s all right. That’s business.” 

“You did not tell him—you dared not”-she said 

excitedly. 

Mr. Dumphy looked curiously at her for a moment. 
Then he rose and shut the door. 

“Look here,” he said, facing Airs. Conroy in a hard, 
matter-of-fact way, “do you mean to say that what that 
man—your husband—said, was true? That he knows 
nothing of you; of the circumstances under which you 
came here ? ” 

“ He does not—I swear to God he does not,” she said 
passionately. 

It was inexplicable, but Mr. Dumphy believed her. 

“But how will you explain this to him? You can do 
aothing without him.” 



Treasure Found and Lost, 203 

“Why should he know more? If he has discovered this 
mine, it is his —free of any gift of mine—as independent of 
any claim of mine as if we were strangers. The law makes 
him the owner of the mine that he discovers, no matter on 
whose land it may be found. In personating his sister, I 
only claimed a grant to the land. He has made the dis¬ 
covery which gives it its value! Even that sister,” she 
added with a sudden flash in her eyes—“ even that sister, 
were she living, could not take it from him now! ” 

It was true ! This woman, with whose weakness he 
had played, had outwitted them all, and slipped through 
their fingers almost without stain or blemish. And in a 
way so simple ! Duped as he had been, he could hardly 
restrain his admiration, and said quite frankly and 
heartily— 

“Good—that’s business ! 

And then—ah me! this clever creature—this sharp 
adventuress, this Anonyma Victrix began to cry, and to 
beg him not to tell her husband! 

At this familiar sign of the universal feminine weakness, 
Dumphy picked up his ears and arts again. 

“ Where’s your proof that your husband is the first dis¬ 
coverer?” he said curtly, but not unkindly. “Won’t that 
paper that Dr. Devarges gave his sister show that the 
doctor was really the discoverer of this lead?” 

“ Yes; but Dr. Devarges is dead, and I hold the paper.” 

“ Good ! ” He took out his watch. “ I’ve five minutes 
more. Now look here. I’m not going to say that you 
haven’t managed this thing well—you have !—and that you 
can, if you like, get along without me—you can ! See 1 
I’m not going to say that I went into this thing without 
the prospect of making something out of it myself. I 
have! That’s business. Tne thing for you to consider 
now is this: understanding each other as we. do, couldn’t 


204 


Gabriel Conroy, 

you push this thing through better with my help—and 
helping me—than to go elsewhere ! Understand me ! 
You could find a dozen men in San Francisco who would 
make you as good an offer and better! But it wouldn’t be 
to their interest to keep down any unpleasant reminders 
of the past as it would be mine. You understand?” 

Mrs. Conroy replied by extending her hand. 

“To keep my secret from every one—from himy she 
said earnestly. 

“ Certainly— thafs business.” 

Then these two artful ones shook hands with a heartfelt 
and loyal admiration and belief for each other that I fear 
more honest folks might have profited by, and Mr. Dumphy 
went off to dine. 

As Mrs. Conroy closed the front door, Oily came running 
in from the back piazza. Mrs. Conroy caught her in her 
arms and discharged her pent-up feelings, and, let us hope, 
her penitence, in a joyful and passionate embrace. But 
Oily struggled to extricate herself. When at last she got 
her head free, she said angrily— 

“ Let me go. I want to see him.” 

“Who— V-T. Dumphy?” asked Mrs. Conroy, still hold¬ 
ing the child, with a half-hysterical laugh. 

“Yes. Gabe said he was here. Let me go, I say !” 

“ What do you want with him ? ” asked her captor with 
shrill gaiety. 

“Gabe says—Gabe says—let me go, will you? Gabe 
says he knew”- 

“ Whom?” 

“ My dear, dear sister Grace! There ! I didn’t mean 
to hurt you—but I must go ! ” 

And she did, leaving the prospective possessor of two 
uid a half millions, vexed, suspicious, and alone. 



Mr, Duniphy meets an Old Friend, 205 


CHAPTER III. 

MR. DUMPHY MEETS AN OLD FRIEND. 

Peter Dumphy was true to his client. A few days after 
he had returned to San Francisco he dispatched a note 
to Victor, asking an interview. He had reasoned that, 
although Victor was vanquished and helpless regarding the 
late discovery at One Horse Gulch, yet his complicity with 
Mrs. Conroy’s earlier deceit might make it advisable that 
his recollection of that event should be effaced. He was 
waiting a reply when a card was brought to him by a clerk. 
Mr. Dumphy glanced at it impatiently, and read the name 
of “ Arthur Poinsett.” Autocrat as Dumphy was in his own 
counting-house and business circle, the name was one of 
such recognised power in California that he could not ignore 
its claims to his attention. More than that, it represented 
a certain respectability and social elevation which Dumphy, 
with all his scepticism and democratic assertion, could not 
with characteristic shrewdness afford to undervalue. He 
said, “ Show him in,” without lifting his head from the 
papers that lay upon his desk. 

The door opened again to an elegant-looking young man, 
who lounged carelessly into the awful presence without any 
of that awe with which the habitual business visitors ap¬ 
proached Peter Dumphy. Indeed, it was possible that 
never before had Mr. Dumphy’s door opened to one who 
was less affected by the great capitalist’s reputation. Never¬ 
theless, with the natural ease of good breeding, after 
depositing his hat on the table, he walked quietly to the 
fireplace, and stood with his back toward it with courteous, 
but perhaps too indiffere.nt patience. Mr. Dumphy was at 
last obliged to look up. 

** Busy, I see,” yawned Poinsett, with languid politeness. 


2 o 6 Gabriel Conroy. 

** Don’t let me disturb you. I thought your man said you 
tvere disengaged. Must have made a mistake.” 

Mr. Dumphy was forced to lay aside his pen, and rise, 
inwardly protesting. 

“ You don’t know me by my card. I have the advantage, 
T think,” continued the young man with a smile, “ even in 
the mere memory of faces. The last time I saw you was— 
let me see—five years ago. Yes! you were chewing a 
scrap of buffalo hide to keep yourself from starving.” 

“Philip Ashley!” said Mr. Dumphy in a low voice, 
looking hastily around, and drawing nearer the stranger. 

“ Precisely,” returned Poinsett somewhat impatiently, 
raising his own voice. “ That was my nom de guerre. But 
Dumphy seems to have httn your real name after all.” 

If Dumphy had conceived any idea of embarrassing 
Poinsett by the suggestion of an alias in his case, he 
could have dismissed it after this half-contemptuous recog¬ 
nition of his own proper cognomen. But he had no such 
idea. In spite of his utmost effort he felt himself gradually 
falling into the same relative position—the same humble 
subordination he had accepted five years before. It was 
useless to think of his wealth, of his power, of his surround¬ 
ings. Here in his own bank parlour he was submissively 
waiting the will and pleasure of this stranger. He made 
one more desperate attempt to regain his lost prestige. 

“You have some business with me, eh? Poinsett!” 
He commenced the sentence with a dignity, and ended it 
with a familiarity equally inefficacious. 

“ Of course,” said Poinsett carelessly, shifting his legs 
before the fire. “ Shouldn’t have called otherwise on a 
man of such affairs at such a time. You are interested, I 
hear, in a mine recently discovered at One Horse Gulch on 
the Rancho of the Blessed Innocents. One of my clienti 
holds a grant, not yet confirmed, to the Rancho.” 


Mr, Dumphy meets a 7 i Old Friend, 20^ 

•• Who ? ” said Mr. Dumphy quickly. 

“I believe that is not important nor essential for you to 
know until we make a formal claim,” returned Arthur 
quietly, “ but I don’t mind satisfying your curiosity. It’s 
Miss Dolores Salvatierra.” 

Mr. Dumphy felt relieved, and began with gathering 
courage and brusqueness, “ That don’t affect ”- 

“Your mining claim ; notin the least,” interrupted Arthur 
quietly. “lam not here to press or urge any rights that 
we may have. We may not even submit the grant for 
patent. But my client would like to know something of 
the present tenants, or, if you will, owners. You represent 
them, I think ? A man and wife. The woman appears 
first as a spinster, assuming to be a Miss Grace Conroy, to 
whom an alleged transfer of an alleged grant was given. 
She next appears as the wife of one Gabriel Conroy, who is, 
I believe, an alleged brother of the alleged Miss Grace 
Conroy. You’ll admit, I think, it’s a pretty mixed business, 
and would make a pretty bad showing in court. But this 
adjudicature we are not yet prepared to demand. What we 
want to know is this—and I came to you, Dumphy, as the 
man most able to tell us. Is the sister or the brother real 
—or are they both impostors ? Is there a legal marriage ? 
Of course_y^«r legal interest is not jeopardised in any event.” 

Mr. Dumphy partly regained his audacity. 

“ You ought to know —you ran away with the real Grace 
Conroy,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. 

“ Did I ? Then this is not she, if I understand you. 
Thanks ! And the brother ”- 

“ Is Gabriel Conroy, if I know the man,” said Dumphy 
shortly, feeling that he had been entrapped into a tacit 
admission. “ But why don’t you satisfy yourself? ” 

“ You have been good enough to render it unnecessary,” 
said Arthur, with a smile. “ I do not doubt your word. 




2 o8 


Gabriel Conroy. 

I am, I trust, too much of a lawyer to doubt the witness 1 
myself have summoned. But who is this woman ? ** 

“The widow of Dr. Devarges.’^ 

“ The real thing?” 

“ Yes, unless Grace Conroy should lay claim to that 
title and privilege. The old man seems to have been 
pretty much divided in his property and affections.” 

The shaft did not apparently reach Arthur, for whom it 
was probably intended. He only said, 

“ Have you legal evidence that she is the widow ? If it 
were a fact, and a case of ill-treatment or hardship, why it 
might abate the claim of my client, who is a rich woman, 
and whose sympathies are of course in favour of the real 
brother and real sister. By the way, there is another sister, 
isn’t there ? ” 

“ Yes, a mere child.” 

“ That’s all. Thank you. I sha’n’t trespass further upon 
your time. Good-day.” 

He had taken up his hat and was moving toward the 
door. Mr. Dumphy, who felt that whatever might have 
been Poinsett’s motives in this interview, he, Dumphy, had 
certainly gained nothing, determined to retrieve himself, if 
possible, by a stroke of audacity. 

“One moment,” he said, as Poinsett was carefully 
settling his hat over his curls. “You know whether this 
girl is living or not. What has become of her ? ” 

“But I don’t,” returned Poinsett calmly, “or I shouldn’t 
come to you” 

There was something about Poinsett’s manner that 
prevented Dumphy from putting him in the category ot 
“ all men,” that both in his haste and his deliberation Mr 
Dumphy was apt to say “ were liars.” 

“ When and where did you see her last ? ” he asked lesi 
curtly. 


Mr, Dumphy meets an Old Friend, 209 

“ I left her at a hunter’s cabin near the North Fork while 
I went back for help. I was too late. A relief party from 
the valley had already discovered the other dead. When 
I returned for Grace she was gone—possibly with the relief 
party. I always supposed it was the expedition that 
succoured you.” 

There was a pause, in which these two scamps looked 
at each other. It will be remembered that both had 
deceived the relief party in reference to their connexions 
with the unfortunate dead. Neither believed, however, 
that the other was aware of the fact But the inferior 
scamp was afraid to ask another question that might dis¬ 
close his own falsehood; and the question which might 
have been an embarrassing one to Arthur, and have 
changed his attitude toward Dumphy, remained unasked. 
Not knowing the reason of Dumphy’s hesitation, Arthur 
was satisfied of his ignorance, and was still left the master. 
He nodded carelessly to Dumphy and withdrew. 

As he left the room he brushed against a short, thick¬ 
set man, who was entering at the same moment. Some 
instinct of mutual repulsion caused the two men to look at 
each other. Poinsett beheld a sallow face, that, in spite 
of its belonging to a square figure, seemed to have a con¬ 
sumptive look; a face whose jaw was narrow and whose 
lips were always half-parted over white, large, and protrud¬ 
ing teeth; a mouth that apparently was always breathless 
—a mouth that Mr. Poinsett remembered as the distinguish¬ 
ing and unpleasant feature of some one vaguely known to 
him professionally. As the mouth gasped and parted 
further in recognition, Poinsett nodded carelessly in return, 
and attributing his repulsion to that extraordinary feature 
thought no more about it. 

Not so the new-comer. He glanced suspiciously after 
Arthur and then at Mr. Dumphy. The latter, who had 

VOL. IV o 


210 


Gabriel Conroy, 

recovered his presence of mind and his old audacity 
turned them instantly upon him. 

Well! What have you got to propose ? ” he said, 
with his usual curt formula. 

“ It is you have something to say ; you sent for mel' 
said his visitor. 

“Yes. You left me to find out that there was another 
grant to that mine. What does all this mean, Ramirez ? ” 

Victor raised his eyes and yellow fringes to the ceiling, 
and said, with a shrug— 

“ Quien sabe ? there are grants and grants ! ” 

“ So it seems. But I suppose you know that we have a 
title now better than any grant—a mineral discovery.” 

Victor bowed and answered with his teeth, “ We^ eh ? ” 

“Yes, I am getting up a company for her husband.” 

“ Her husband—good ! ” 

Dumphy looked at his accomplice keenly. There was 
something in Victor’s manner that was vaguely suspicious. 
Dumphy, who was one of those men to whose courage the 
habit of success in all things was essential, had been a 
little shaken by his signal defeat in his interview with 
Poinsett, and now became irritable. 

“Yes—her husband. What have you got to propose 
about it, eh? Nothing? Well, look here, I sent for you 
to say that as everything now is legal and square, you 
might as well dry up in regard to her former relations or 
your first scheme. You sabe?” Dumphy became slangy 
as he lost his self-control. “You are to know nothing 
about Miss Grace Conroy.” 

“And there is no more any sister, eh—only a wife?* 

“ Exactly.” 

“ So.” 

“You will of course get something lor these preliminary 
steps of yours, although you understand they hav: been 


Mr. Dtcmphy meets an Old Friend, 211 

useless, and that your claim is virtually dead. You are, in 
fact, in no way connected with her present success. Un¬ 
less—unless,” added Dumphy, with a gratuitous malice 
that defeat had engendered, “ unless you expect something 
for having been the means of making a match between her 
and Gabriel.” 

Victor turned a little more yellow in the thin line over 
his teeth. “ Ha ! ha ! good—a joke,” he laughed. “ No, 
I make no charge to you for that; not even to you. No 
—ha ! ha! ” At the same moment had Mr. Dumphy 
known what was passing in his mind he would have pro¬ 
bably moved a little nearer the door of his counting-room. 

“ There’s nothing we can pay you for but silence. We 
may as well understand each other regarding that. That’s 
your interest; it’s ours only so far as Mrs. Conroy’s social 
standing is concerned, for I warn you that exposure might 
seriously compromise you in a business way, while it 
would not hurt us. I could get the value of Gabriel’s 
claim to the mine advanced to-morrow, if the whole story 
were known to-night. If you remember, the only evidence 
of a previous discovery exists in a paper in our possession. 
Perhaps we pay you for that. Consider it so, if you like. 
Consider also that any attempt to get hold of it legally or 
otherwise would end in its destruction. Well, what do 
you say ? All right When the stock is issued I’ll write 
you a cheque : or perhaps you’d take a share of stock ? ” 

“ I would prefer the money,” said Victor, with a peculiar 
laugh. 

Dumphy affected to take no notice of the sarcasm. 
“Your head is level, Victor,” he said, returning to bis 
papers. “ Don’t meddle with stocks. Good day ! ” 

Victor moved toward the door. “ By the way, Victor,” 
said Dumphy, looking up, calmly, “ if you know the ownef 
of this lately discovered grant, you might intimate that any 


212 Gabriel Conroy. 

litigation wouldn’t pay. That’s what I told their counsel a 
moment ago.” 

“ Poinsett ? ” asked Victor, pausing, with his hand on 
the door. 

“ Yes ! But as he also happens to be Philip Ashley— 
the chap who ran oft' with Grace Conroy, you had better 
go and see him. Perhaps he can help you better than L 
Good day.” 

And, turning from the petrified Victor, Mr. Dumphy, 
conscious that he had fully regained his prestige, rang his 
bell to admit the next visitor. 


CHAPTER IV. 

MR. JACK HAMLIN TAKES A HOLIDAY. 

For some weeks Mr. Hamlin had not been well, or, as he 
more happily expressed it, had been “ off colour.” The 
celebrated Dr. Duchesne, an ex-army surgeon, after a care¬ 
ful diagnosis, had made several inquiries of Jack, in a frank 
way that delighted Mr. Hamlin, and then had said very 
quietly— 

“ You are not doing justice to your profession. Jack. 
Your pulse is 75, and that won’t do for a man who habitually 
deals faro. Been doing pretty well lately, and having a 
good time, eh? I thought so I You’ve been running too 
fast, and under too high pressure. You must take these 
weights off the safety valve. Jack—better take the blower 
down altogether. Bank your fires and run on half steam. 
For the next two months I shall run you. You must live 
like a Christian.” Noticing the horror of Jack’s face, he 
added hastily, I mean go to bed before midnight, get up 
before you want to, eat more and drink less, don’t play 
to win, bore yourself thoroughly, and by that time I’ll be 


Mr, Jack Hamlin takes a Holiday, 213 

fcble to put you back at that table as strong and cool as 
ever. You used to sing, Jack; sit down at the piano and 
give me a taste of your quality. * * * There, that’ll do; I 
thought so! You’re out of practice and voice. Do that 
every day, for a week, and it will come easier. I haven’t 
seen you stop and talk to a child for a month. What’s 
become of that little boot-black that you used to bedevil ? 
I’ve a devilish good mind to send you to a foundling hospital 
for the good of the babies and yourself. Find out some 
poor ranchero with a dozen children, and teach ’em singing. 
Don’t mind what you eat, as long as you eat regularly. I’d 
have more hopes of you. Jack, if I’d dragged you out of Star¬ 
vation Camp, in the Sierras, as I did a poor fellow six years 
ago, than finding you here in these luxurious quarters. Come! 
Do as I say, and I’ll stop that weariness, dissipate that 
giddiness, get rid of that pain, lower that pulse, and put 
you back where you were. I don’t like your looks. Jack, 
at all. I’d buck against any bank you ran, all night” 

From which the intelligent reader will, I hope and trust, 
perceive that this popular doctor’s ideas of propriety resided 
wholly in his intentions. With the abstract morality of 
Hamlin’s profession as a gambler he did not meddle ; with 
his competency to practise that profession only was he 
concerned. Indeed, so frank was he in his expression, that 
a few days later he remarked to a popular clergyman, “ I 
must put you under the same treatment as I did Jack 
Hamlin—do you know him ?—a gambler and a capital 
fellow; you remind me of him. Same kind of trouble— 
cured him as I will you.” And he did. 

The result of which advice was that in two weeks Mr. 
Jack Hamlin found himself dvjadfully bored and enniiyt^ 
but loyal to his trust with his physician, wandering in the 
lower coast counties. At San Luis Rey, he attended a 
bull-fight, and was sorely tempted to back the bull heavily, 


214 


Gabriel Conroy, 

and even conceived the idea of introducing a grizzly bear, 
taking all the odds himself, but remembered his promise, 
and fled the fascination. And so the next day, in a queer 
old-fashioned diligence, he crossed the coast range, and 
drifted into the quiet Mission of San Antonio. Here he 
'was so done up and bored with the journey and the 
unpromising aspect of the town, that he quietly yielded his 
usual profane badinage of the landlord to his loyal hench¬ 
man and negro body-servant, “ Pete,” and went to bed at 
the solitary “ Fonda,” in the usual flea-infested bedroom of 
the Spanish California inn. 

“ What does she look like, Pete ? ” said Jack, languidly. 

Pete, who was familiar with his master’s peculiarities of 
speech, knew that the feminine pronoun referred to the 
town, and responded with great gravity— 

“ De fac’ is, Mahs Jack, dah don’t peah to be much show 
heah foh you. Deys playin’ three-card monte in the bah 
room, but ’taint no squar game. It ’ud do you no good, 
it might jess rile you. Deys a fass pinto boss hitched to a 
poss in de yard—a boss dat de owner don’t seem to under¬ 
stand nohow. If you was right smart agin, I might let you 
go down thar and get a bet outer some o’ dem Greasers, 
But ’twon’t do nohow. Deys a kind o’ school—Sunday- 
school, I reckon—nex doah. Lots o’ little children saying 
prayers, singin’ and praisin’ de Lord, sah.” 

“ What day is this ? ” asked Jack, with sudden trepidation. 

‘‘Sunday, sah.” 

Jack uttered a plaintive groan and rolled over. 

“ Give one of these children a quarter, and tell him there's 
another quarter waiting for him up here.” 

“ You won’t get no child to fool wid dis day, Mahs Jack, 
shuah. Deys bound to get licked when dey goes. Folks 
is mighty hard on dem boys, Sunday, sah; and it’s de Lord’s 
lay, Mahs Jack.” 


Mr. J%ck Hamlin takes a Holiday, 215 

Partly for the sake of horrifying his attendant, who not¬ 
withstanding his evil associations was very devout, Jack 
gave way to violent denunciation of any system of theology 
that withheld children from romping with him any day he 
might select. 

“Open that window,” he groaned, finally, “and shove 
the bed alongside of it. That’ll do. Hand me that novel. 
You needn’t read to me to-day \ you can finish that 
Volney’s ‘Ruins ’ another time.” 

It may be remarked here that it had been Jack’s invalid 
habit to get Pete to read to him. As he had provided 
himself with such books as were objectionable to Pete, as 
they were always utterly incomprehensible when filtered 
through his dialect, and as he always made the reader 
repeat the more difficult words, he extracted from this diver¬ 
sion a delicious enjoyment, which Pete never suspected. 

“You can go now,” he said, when Pete had arranged 
him comfortably. “I shan’t want you this afternoon. 
Take some money. I reckon you won’t find any church 
of your kind here, but if anybody interferes with you, jest 
lambaste him ! If you can’t do it, jest spot him, and 1 
will! ” (Mr. Hamlin never allowed anybody but himself 
to object to his follower’s religious tendencies.) “ Have a 
good time, Pete ! Don’t tangle yourself up if you can 
help it. The liquor about here is jest pizen.” 

With this parting adjuration Mr. Hamlin turned over 
and tried to devote himself to his book. But after reading 
ft few lines the letters somehow got blurred and indistinct, 
and he was obliged to put the book down with a much 
graver recollection of the doctor’s warning than he had 
ever had before. He was obliged to confess to a singular 
wearinesf and lassitude that had become habitual, and to 
admit that he had more pain at times than—as he put it— 
“ a man ought to have.” The idea of his becoming blind 


2i6 Gabriel Conroy, 

or paralysed dawned upon him gradually, at first humor¬ 
ously ; wondering if he couldn’t deal faro as well without 
the use of his legs, for instance, which were of no account 
to a man under the table; if there could not be raised 
cards for the blind as well as raised letters. The idea of 
feeling a “ pair ” or a ‘‘ flush ” amused him greatly, and 
then he remembered more gravely poor Gordon, who, 
becoming gradually paralysed, blew his brains out. “ The 
best thing he could do,” he soliloquised, seriously. The 
reflection, however, had left such a depressing effect upon 
his mind that the exaltation of liquor for a moment seemed 
to be the proper thing for him; but the next moment, 
remembering his promise to the doctor, he changed his 
mind, and—with an effort—his reflections. 

For relief he turned his paling face to the window. It 
gave upon a dusty courtyard, the soil of which was pul¬ 
verised by the pawing of countless hoofs during the long, 
dry summer; upon a tiled roof that rose above an adobe 
wall, over which again rose the two square whitewashed 
tow’ers of the Mission church. Between these towers he 
caught a glimpse of dark green foliage, and beyond this 
the shining sea. 

It was very hot and dry. Scarcely a wave of air stirred 
the curtains of the window. That afternoon the trade- 
winds which usually harried and bullied the little Mission 
of San Antonio did not blow, and a writhing weeping 
willow near the window, that whipped itself into trifling 
hysterics on the slightest pretext, was surprised into a stony 
silence. Fven the sea beyond glittered and was breathless. 
It reminded Jack of the mouth of the man he met in 
Sacramento at the hotel, and again had quarrelled with in 
San Francisco. And there, absolutely, was the man, the 
-^ery man, gazing up at the hotel from the shadows of the 
courtyard. Jack was instantly and illogically furious. 


M r. Jack Hamlin takes a Holiday, 217 

Had Pete been there he would at once have sent an 
insulting message ; but, while he was looking at him, a 
sound rose upon the air which more pleasantly arrested 
his attention. 

It was an organ. Not a very fine instrument, nor skil¬ 
fully played \ but an instrument that Jack was passionately 
fond of. I forgot to say that he had once occupied the 
position of organist in the Second Presbyterian Church of 
Sacramento, until a growing and more healthy public 
sentiment detected an incongruity between his secular and 
Sunday occupations, and a prominent deacon, a successful 
liquor-dealer, demanded his resignation. Although he 
afterwards changed his attentions to a piano, he never 
entirely lost his old affections. To become the possessor 
of a large organ, to introduce it gradually, educating the 
public taste, as a special feature of a first-class gambling 
saloon, had always been one of Jack’s wildest ambitions. 
So he raised himself upon his elbow and listened. He 
could see also that the adjacent building was really a 
recent addition to the old Mission church, and that what 
appeared to be a recess in the wall was only a deeply 
embrasured window. Presently a choir of fresh young 
voices joined the organ. Mr. Hamlin listened more 
attentively; it was one of Mozart’s masses with which he 
was familiar. 

For a few moments he forgot his pain and lassitude, and 
lying there hummed in unison. And then, like a true 
enthusiast, unmindful of his surroundings, he lifted his 
voice—a very touching tenor, well known among his friends 
—and joined in, drowning, I fear, the feebler pipe of the 
ttle acolytes within. Indeed, it was a fine sight to see 
this sentimental scamp, lying sick nigh unto dissolution 
through a dissipated life and infamous profession, down 
upon his back in the dingy marto of a cheap Spanish inn. 


218 Gabriel Conroy, 

voicing the litanies of the Virgin. Howbeit, once started in 
he sang it through, and only paused when the antiphonal 
voices and organ ceased. Then he lifted his head, and, 
leaning on his elbow, looked across the courtyard. He 
had hoped for the appearance of some of the little singers, 
and had all ready a handful of coin to throw to them, and 
a few of those ingenious epithets and persuasive arguments 
by which he had always been successful with the young. 
But he was disappointed. 

“I reckon school ain’t out yet,” he said to himself, and 
was about to lie down again, when a face suddenly ap¬ 
peared at the grating of the narrow window. 

Mr. Hamlin as suddenly became breathless, and the 
colour rose to his pale face. He was very susceptible to 
female beauty, and the face that appeared at the grating 
was that of a very beautiful Indian girl. He thought, and 
was ready to swear, that he had never seen anything half 
so lovely. Framed in the recess of the. embrasure as a 
shrine, it might have been a shadowed devotional image, 
but that the face was not so angelically beautiful as it was 
femininely fascinating, and that the large deeply fringed 
eyes had an expression of bright impatience and human 
curiosity. From his secure vantage behind the curtain 
Mr. Hamlin knew that he could not be seen, and so lay 
and absorbed this lovely bronze apparition which his voice 
seemed to have evoked from the cold bronze adobe wall. 
And then, as suddenly, she was gone, and the staring sun¬ 
light and glittering sea beyond seemed to Mr. Hamlin to 
have gone too. 

When Pete returned at sunset, he was amazed and 
alarmed to find his master dressed and sitting by the 
window. There was a certain brightness in his eye and 
an unwontq^ colour in his cheek that alarmed him still 
more. 


Mr, Jack Hamlin takes a Holiday, 219 

“You ain’t bin and gone done nuffin’ agin de doctor’s 
orders, Mahs Jack?” he began. 

“ You’ll find the whisky flask all right, unless you’ve been 
dippin’ into it, you infernal old hypocrite,” responded Jack, 
cheerfully, accepting the implied suspicion of his servant. 
“ I’ve dressed myself because I’m goin’ to church to-night, 
to find out where you get your liquor. I’m happy because 
I’m virtuous. Trot out that Volney’s ‘ Ruins,’ and wade 
in. You’re gettin’ out o’ practice, Pete. Stop. Because 
you’re religious, do you expect me to starve ? Go and 
order supper first! Stop. Where in blank are you going ? 
Here, you’ve been gone three hours on an errand for me, 
and if you ain’t runnin’ off without a word about it.” 

“ Gone on an errand foh you, sah ? ” gasped the aston¬ 
ished Pete. 

“ Yes ! Didn’t I tell you to go round and see what was 
the kind of religious dispensation here?” continued Jack, 
vith an unmoved face. “ Didn’t I charge you particularly 
to observe if the Catholic Church was such as a professing 
Christian and the former organist of the Second Presby¬ 
terian Church of Sacramento could attend? And now I 
suppose I’ve got to find out myself. I’d bet ten to one 
you ain’t been there at all! ” 

In sheer embarrassment Pete began to brush his master’s 
clothes with ostentatious and apologetic diligence, and said— 

“ I’se no Papist, Mahs Jack, but if I’d thought”- 

“Do you suppose I’m going to sit here without my 
supper while you abuse the Catholic Church—the only 

church that a gentleman”- but the frightened Pete 

vas gone. 

The Angelus bell had just rung, and it lacked a full half 
hour yet before vespers, when Mr. Hamlin lounged into 
the old Mission church. Only a few figures knelt here and 
there—mere vague, black shadows in the gloom. Aided, 



220 


Gabriel Conroy, 

perhaps, more by intuition than the light of the dim candles 
on the high altar, he knew that the figure he looked for was 
not among them; and seeking the shadow of a column he 
calmly waited its approach. It seemed a long time. A 
heavy-looking woman, redolent of garlic, came in and 
knelt nearly opposite. A yellow vaquero, whom Mr. Ham¬ 
lin recalled at once as one he had met on the road hither, 
—a man whose Spanish profanity, incited by unruly cattle, 
had excited Jack’s amused admiration,—dropped on his 
knees, and with equally characteristic volubility began a 
supplication to the Virgin. Then two or three men, whom 
Jack recognised as the monte-players of the “ Fonda,” be¬ 
gan, as it seemed to Jack, to bewail their losses in lachry¬ 
mose accents. And then Mr. Hamlin, highly excited, with 
a pulse that would have awakened the greatest concern of 
his doctor, became nervously and magnetically aware that 
some one else was apparently waiting and anxious as him¬ 
self, and had turned his head at the entrance of each one 
of the congregation. It was a figure Jack had at first over¬ 
looked. Safe in the shadow of the column, he couW watch 
it without being seen himself. Even in the gloom he could 
see the teeth and eyes of the man he had observed that 
afternoon—his old antagonist at Sacramento. 

Had it been anywhere else Jack would have indulged 
his general and abstract detestation of Victor by instantly 
picking a quarrel with him. As it was, he determined 
upon following him when he left the church—of venting 
on him any possible chagrin or disappointment he might 
then have, as an excitement to mitigate the unsupportable 
dreariness of the Mission. The passions are not so ex¬ 
clusive as moralists imagine, for Mr. Hamlin was beginning 
to have his breast filled with wrath against Victor, in 
proportion as his doubts of the appearance of the beautifuf 
atranger grew stronger in his mind, when two figures 


Mr. Jack Hamlin takes a Holiday. 22} 

momentarily darkened the church porch, and a rustle of 
Bilk stole upon his ear. A faint odour of spice penetrated 
through the incense. Jack looked up, and his heart 
stopped beating. 

It was she. As she reached the stall nearly opposite, 
she put aside her black veil, and disclosed the same calm, 
nymph-like face he had seen at the window. It was 
doubly beautiful now. Even the strange complexion had 
for Jack a bewildering charm. She looked around, hesi¬ 
tated for a moment, and then knelt between the two 
monte-players. With an almost instinctive movement 
Jack started forward, as if to warn her of the contaminating 
contact. And then he stopped, his own face crimsoned 
with shame. For the first time he had doubted the morality 
of his profession. 

The organ pealed out; the incense swam; the mono¬ 
tonous voice of the priest rose upon the close, sluggish air, 
and Mr. Jack Hamlin dreamed a dream. He had dis¬ 
possessed the cold, mechanical organist, and, seating him¬ 
self at the instrument, had summoned all the powers of 
reed and voice to sing the paeans—ah me! I fear not of 
any abstract Being, but of incarnate flesh and blood. He 
leard her pure, young voice lifted beside his; even in that 
Lold, passionless commingling there was joy unspeakable, 
and he knew himself exalted. Yet he was conscious even 
in his dream, from his own hurried breathing, and some¬ 
thing that seemed to swell in his throat, that he could not 
have sung a note. And then he came back to his senses, 
and a close examination of the figure before him. He 
looked at the graceful, shining head, the rich lace veil, the 
quiet elegance of attire, even to the small satin slipper that 
stole from beneath her silken robe—all united with a refine¬ 
ment and an air of jealous seclusion, that somehow removed 
him to an immeasurable distance. . 


222 


Gabriel Conroy. 

The anthem ceased, the last notes of the organ died 
away, and the lady rose. Half an hour before. Jack would 
have gladly stepped forward to have challenged even a 
passing glance from the beautiful eyes of the stranger; 
now a timidity and distrust new to the man took possession 
of him. He even drew back closer in the shadow as she 
stepped toward the pillar, which supported on its face a 
font of holy water. She had already slipped off her glove, 
and now she leaned forward—so near he could almost feel 
her warm breath—and dipped her long slim fingers into 
the water. As she crossed herself with the liquid symbol. 
Jack gave a slight start. One or two drops of holy water 
thrown from her little fingers had fallen on his face. 


CHAPTER V. 

VICTOR MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

Happily for Mr. Hamlin, the young girl noticed neither 
the effect of her unconscious baptismal act, nor its object, 
but moved away slowly to the door. As she did so. Jack 
stepped from the shadow of the column, and followed her 
with eyes of respectful awe and yearning. She had barely 
reached the porch, when she suddenly and swiftly turned 
and walked hurriedly back, almost brushing against Mr. 
Hamlin. Her beautiful eyes were startled and embarrassed, 
her scarlet lips parted and paling rapidly, her whole figure 
and manner agitated and discomposed. Without noticing 
him she turned toward the column, and under the pretext 
of using the holy water, took hold of the font, and leaned 
against it, as if for support, with her face averted from the 
light. Jack could see her hands tighten nervously on the 
stone, and fancied that her whole figure trembled as she 
stood there. 


Victor makes a Discovery» 223 

He hesitated for a moment, and then moved to her side; 
not audaciously and confident, as was his wont with women, 
but with a boyish colour in his face, and a timid, half-em¬ 
barrassed manner. 

“ Can I do anything for you, Miss ? ” he said, falteringly. 
“ You don’t seem to be well. I mean you look tired. Shan’t 
I bring you a chair? It’s the heat of this hole—I mean it’s 
so warm here. Shan’t I go for a glass of water, a carriage?” 

Here she suddenly lifted her eyes to his, and his voice 
and presence of mind utterly abandoned him. 

“ It’s nothing,” she said, with a dignified calm, as sudden 
and as alarming to Jack as her previous agitation— 
“ nothing,” she added, fixing her clear eyes on his, with a 
look so frank, so open, and withal, as it seemed to Jack, so 
cold and indifferent, that his own usually bold glance fell 
beneath it, “ nothing but the heat and closeness; I am 
better now.” 

“Shall I”-began Jack, awkwardly. 

“I want nothing, thank you.” 

Seeming to think that her conduct required some explana¬ 
tion, she added, hastily— 

“ There was a crowd at the door as I was going out, and 
in the press I felt giddy. I thought some one—some 
man—pushed me rudely. I daresay I was mistaken.” 

She glanced at the porch against which a man was still 
leaning. 

The suggestion of her look and speech—if it were a sug¬ 
gestion—was caught instantly by Jack. Without waiting 
for her to finish the sentence, he strode to the door. To 
his wrathful surprise the lounger was Victor. Mr. Hamlin 
did not stop for explanatory speech. With a single expres¬ 
sive word, and a single dexterous movement of his arm 
and foot, he tumbled the astonished Victor down the steps 
at one side, and then turned toward his late companion. 



224 Gabriel Conroy, 

But she had been equally prompt. With a celerity quite 
inconsistent with her previous faintness, she seized the 
moment that Victor disappeared to dart by him and gain 
her carriage, which stood in waiting at the porch. But as 
it swiftly drove away, Mr. Hamlin caught one grateful glance 
from those wonderful eyes, one smile from those perfect 
lips, and was happy. What matters that he had an explana¬ 
tion—possibly a quarrel on his hands? Ah me! I fear 
this added zest to the rascal’s satisfaction. 

A hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned and saw the 
face of the furious Victor, with every tooth at a white heat, 
and panting with passion. Mr. Hamlin smiled pleasantly. 

** Why, I want to know 1 ” he ejaculated, with an affecta¬ 
tion of rustic simplicity, “if it ain’t you, Johnny. Why, 
darn my skin ! And this is your house ? You and St. 
Anthony in partnership, eh ? Well, that gets me 1 And 
here I tumbled you off your own stoop, didn’t I ? I might 
have known it was you by the way you stood there. Mightn’t 
I, Johnny?” 

“My name is not Johnny— Cardmba!'^ gasped Victor 
almost beside himself with impatient fury. 

“ Oh, it’s that, is it ? Any relation to the Cardmbas of 
Dutch Flat ? It ain’t a pretty name. I like Johnny better. 
And I would’nt make a row here now. Not to-day, Johnny; 
it’s Sunday. I’d go home. I’d go quietly home, and I’d 
beat some woman or child to keep myself in training. But 
I’d go home first. I wouldn’t draw that knife, neither, for 
it might cut your fingers, and frighten the folks around 
town. I’d go home quietly, like a good nice little man. 
And in the morning I’d come round to the hotel on the 
next square, and I’d ask for Mr. Hamlin, Mr. Jack Hamlin, 
Koom No. 29; and I’d go right up to his room, and I’d 
have such a time with him—such a high old time; I’d 
*ust make that hotel swim with blood.” 


Victor makes a Discovery. 225 

Two or three of the monte players had gathered around 
Victor, and seemed inclined to take the part of their 
countryman. Victor was not slow to improve this moment 
of adhesion and support. 

“ Is it dogs that we are, my compatriots ? ” he said to 
them bitterly ; “ and he—this one—a man infamous ! ” 

Mr. Hamlin, who had a quick ear for abusive and inter- 
jaculatory Spanish, overheard him. There was a swift 
chorus of “ Cardmba ! ” from the allies, albeit wholesomely 
restrained by something in Mr. Hamlin’s eye which was 
visible, and probably a suspicion of something in Mr. 
Hamlin’s pocket which was not visible. But the remaining 
portion of Mr. Hamlin was ironically gracious. 

“Friends of yours, I suppose?” he inquired, affably. 
“ ‘ Cardmbas ’ all of them, too ! Perhaps they’ll call with 
you ? Maybe they haven’t time and are in a hurry now ? 
If my room isn’t large enough, and they can’t wait, there’s 
a handy lot o’ ground beyond on the next square —Plaza 
del Toros^ eh? What did you say? I’m a little deaf in 
this ear.” 

Under the pretence of hearing more distinctly. Jack 
Hamlin approached the nearest man, who, I grieve to 
>ay, instantly and somewhat undignifiedly retreated. ' Mr. 
Hamlin laughed. But already a crowd of loungers had 
gathered, and he felt it was time to end this badinage, 
grateful as it was to his sense of humour. So he lifted his 
hat gravely to Victor and his friends, replaced it perhaps 
aggressively tilted a trifle over his straight nose, and 
lounged slowly back to his hotel, leaving his late adver¬ 
saries in secure but unsatisfactory and dishonourable pos¬ 
session of the field. Once in his own quarters, he roused 
:he sleeping Pete, and insisted upon opening a religious 
discussion, in which, to Pete’s great horror, he warmly 
espoused the Catholic Church, averring, with several 

VOL. IV. P 


226 


Gabriel Conroy, 

strong expletives, that it was the only religion fit for a 
white man, and ending somewhat irreverently by inquiring 
into the condition of the pistols. 

Meanwhile Victor had also taken leave of his friends. 

“ He has fled—this most infamous ! ” he said ; “ he 
dared not remain and face us ! Thou didst observe his 
fear, Tiburcio ? It was thy great heart that did it! ” 

“ Rather he recognised thee, my Victor, and his heart 
was that of the coyote.” 

“It was the Mexican nation, ever responsive to the 
appeal of manhood and liberty, that made his liver as 
blanched as that of the chicken,” returned the gentleman 
who had retreated from Jack. “ Let us then celebrate 
this triumph with a little glass.” 

And Victor, who was anxious to get away from his 
friends, and saw in the prospective aguardiente a chance 
for escape, generously led the way to the first wine-shop. 

It chanced to bq the principal one of the town. It had 
the generic quality—that is, was dirty, dingy, ill-smelling, 
and yellow with cigarette smoke. Its walls were adorned 
by various prints—one or two French in origin, excellent 
in art, and defective in moral sentiment, and several of 
Spanish origin, infamous in art, and admirable in religious 
feeling. It had a portrait of Santa Anna, and another of 
the latest successful revolutionary general. It had an 
allegorical picture representing the Genius of Liberty 
descending with all the celestial machinery upon the 
Mexican Confederacy. Moved apparently by the same 
taste for poetry and personification, the proprietor had 
added to his artistic collection a highly coloured American 
handbill representing the Angel of Healing presenting a 
stricken family with a bottle of somebody’s Panacea. At 
the farther extremity of the low room a dozen players sat 
at a green-baize table absorbed in monte. Beyond them, 


Victor makes a Discovery, 227 

leaning against the wall, a harp-player twanged the strings 
of his instrument, in a lugubrious air, with that singular 
stickiness of touch and reluctancy of finger peculiar to 
itinerant performers on that instrument. The card-players 
were profoundly indifferent to both music and performer. 

The face of one of the players attracted Victor’s atten¬ 
tion. It was that of the odd English translator—the 
irascible stranger upon whom he had intruded that night 
of his memorable visit to Don Josd. Victor had no diffi¬ 
culty in recognising him, although his slovenly and 
negligent working-dress had been changed to his holiday 
antique black suit. He did not lift his eyes from the 
game until he had lost the few silver coins placed in a pile 
before him, when he rose grimly, and nodding brusquely 
to the other players, without speaking left the room. 

“He has lost five half-dollars—his regular limit—no 
more, no less,” said Victor to his friend. “ He will not 
play again to-night! ” 

“You know of him?” asked Vincente, in admiration of 
his companion’s superior knowledge. 

“Si!” said Victor. “He is a jackal, a dog of the 
Americanos,” he added, vaguely intending to revenge him¬ 
self on the stranger’s former brusqueness by this deprecia¬ 
tion. “ He affects to know our history—our language. 
Is it a question of the fine meaning of a word—the shade 
of a technical expression ?—it is him they ask, not us ! It 
is thus they treat us, these heretics ! Cardmbal'^ 

“ Cardmba / ” echoed Vincente, with a vague patriotism 
superinduced by aguardiente. But Victor had calculated to 
unloose Vincente’s tongue for his private service. 

“ It is the world, my friend,” he said, senientiously. 
'‘These Americanos—come they here often ?” 

“ You know the great American advocate—our friend— 
Don Arturo Poinsett ? ” 


228 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ Yes,” said Victor, impatiently. “ Comes he ? ” 

“ Eh ! does he not ? ” laughed Vincente. “ Always. Ever 
Eternally. He has a client—a widow, young, handsome 
rich, eh ?—one of his own race.” 

“ Ah ! you are wise, Vincente I ” 

Vincente laughed a weak spirituous laugh. 

“ Ah ! it is a transparent fact. Truly—of a verity. 

Believe me !” 

“And this fair client—who is she ? ” 

“ Donna Maria Sepulvida! ” said Vincente, in a drunken 
whisper. 

“ How is this ? You said she was of his own race.” 

“ Truly, I did. She is Americana. But it is years ago. 
She was very young. When the Americans first came, she 
was of the first. She taught the child of the widower Don 
Jos^ Sepulvida, herself almost a child; you understand ? It 
was the old story. She was pretty, and poor, and young ; the 
Don grizzled, and old, and rich. It was fire and tow. Eh ? 
Ha! Ha ! The Don meant to be kind, you understand, 
and made a rich wife of the little Americana. He was 
kinder than he meant, and in two years, Cardmha / made a 
richer widow of the Donna.” 

If Vincente had not been quite thrown by his potations, 
he would have seen an undue eagerness in Victor’s mouth 
and eyes. 

“ And she is pretty—tall and slender like the Americans, 
eh ?—large eyes, a sweet mouth ? ” 

“ An angel. Ravishing ! ” 

“ And Don Arturo—from legal adviser turns a lover ! ” 

“ It is said,” responded Vincente, with drunken cunning 
and exceeding archness ; “ but thou and I, Victor, know 
better. Love comes not with a brief! Eh ? Look, it is 
an old flame, believe me. It is said it is not two months 
that he first came here, and she fell in love with him at 


Victor makes a Discovery, 229 

the first glance. Absurdo 1 Dispardtado! Hear me> 
Victor; it was an old flame ; an old quarrel made up. 
Thou and I have heard the romance before. Two lovers 
not rich, eh ? Good I Separation ; despair. The Senorita 
marries the rich man, eh ? ” 

Victor was too completely carried away by the suggestion 
of his friend’s speech, to conceal his satisfaction. Here was 
the secret at last. Here was not only a clue, but absolutely 
the missing Grace Conroy herself. In this young Americana 
—this—widow—this client of her former lover, Philip 
Ashley, he held the secret of three lives. In his joy he 
slapped Vincente on the back, and swore roundly that he 
was the wisest of men. 

“ I should have seen her—the heroine of this romance— 
my friend. Possibly, she was at mass ? ” 

Possibly not. She is Catholic, but Don Arturo is not 
She does not often attend when he is here.” 

“ As to-day ? ” 

“ As to-day.” 

“ You are wrong, friend Vincente,” said Victor, a little 
impatiently. “ I was there; I saw her.” 

Vincente shrugged his shoulders and shook his head with 
drunken gravity. 

“ It is impossible, Senor Victor, believe me.” 

“I tell you I saw her,” said Victor, excitedly. Bor- 
rachon ! She was there ! By the pillar. As she went out 
she partook of agua bendita. I saw her; large eyes, an 
oval face, a black dress and mantle.” 

Vincente, who, happily for Victor, had not heard the 
epithet of his friend, shook his head and laughed a con¬ 
ceited drunken laugh. 

“ Tell me not this, friend Victor. It was not her thou didst 
see. Believe me, I am wise. It was the Donna Dolores 
who partook of agua bendita^ and alone. For there is none, 


230 


Gabriel Conroy. 

thou knowest, that has a right to offer it to her. Look you, 
foolish Victor, she has large eyes, a small mouth, an oval 
face. And dark—ah, she is dark ! ” 

“ * In the dark all are as the devil,*” quoted Victor, impa¬ 
tiently, “ how should I know ? Who then is she ? ” he 
demanded almost fiercely, as if struggling with a rising 
fear. “ Who is this Donna Dolores } ” 

‘‘Thou art a stranger, friend Victor. Hark ye. It is the 
half-breed daughter of the old commander of San YsabeL 
Yet, such is the foolishness of old men, she is his heiress! 
She is rich, and lately she has come into possession of a 
great grant, very valuable. Thou dost understand, friend 
Victor ? Well, why dost thou stare ? She is a recluse. 
Marriage is not for her; love, love ! the tender, the subdu¬ 
ing, the delicious, is not for her. She is of the Church, my 
Victor. And to think that thou didst mistake this ascetic, 
this nun, this little brown novice, this Donna Dolores 
Salvatierra for the little American coquette. Ha! Ha ! It 
is worth the fee of another bottle ? Eh ? Victor, my friend ! 
Thou dost not listen. Eh? Thou wouldst fly, traitor. 
Eh? what’s that thou sayst? Bobo ! Dupe thyself! ” 

For Victor stood before him, dumb, but for that single 
epithet. Was he not a dupe ? Had he not been cheated 
again, and this time by a blunder in his own malice? If 
he had really, as he believed, identified Grace Conroy in 
this dark-faced devotee whose name he now learned for 
the first time, by what diabolical mischance had he deliber¬ 
ately put her in possession of the forged grant, and so 
blindly restored her the missing property? Could Don 
Pedro have been treacherous? Could he have known, 
could they all—Arthur Poinsett, Dumphy, and Julie De- 
/arges—have known this fact of which he alone was 
ignorant? Were they not laughing at him now? The 
thought was madness. 


An Expert. 231 

With a vague impression of being shaken rudely off by 
% passionate hand, and a drunken vision of a ghastly and 
passionate face before him uttering words of impotent rage 
and baffled despair, Vincente, the wise and valiant, came 
slowly and amazedly to himself, lying over the table. But 
his late companion was gone. 


• CHAPTER VI. 

AN EXPERT. 

A COLD, grey fog hac that night stolen noiselessly in from 
the sea, and, after possessing the town, had apparently 
intruded itself in the long, low plain before the hacienda 
of the Rancho of the Holy Trinity, where it sullenly lingered 
even after the morning sun had driven in its eastern out¬ 
posts. Viewed from the Mission towers, it broke a cold 
grey sea against the corral of the hacienda^ and half hid the 
white walls of the hacienda itself. It was characteristic of 
the Rancho that, under such conditions, at certain times 
it seemed to vanish entirely from the sight, or rather to 
lose and melt itself into the outlines of the low foot-hills, 
and Mr. Perkins, the English translator, driving a buggy 
that morning in that direction, was forced once or twice to 
stop and take his bearings anew, until the grey sea fell, 
and the hacienda again heaved slowly into view. 

Although Mr. Perkins’ transformations were well known 
to his intimate associates, it might have been difficult for 
any stranger to have recognised the slovenly drudge of 
Pacific Street, in the antique dandy who drove the buggy. 
Mr. Perkins’ hair was brushed, curled, and darkened by 
dye. A high stock of a remote fashion encompassed his 
neck, above which his face, whitened by cosmetics to con¬ 
ceal his high complexion, rested stiffly and expressionless 


232 Gabriel Conroy, 

as a mask. A light blue coat buttoned tightly over his 
breast, and a pair of close-fitting trousers strapped over his 
japanned leather boots, completed his remarkable ensemble. 
It was a figure well known on Montgomery Street after 
three o’clock—seldom connected with the frousy visitor of 
the Pacific Street den, and totally unrecognisable on the 
plains of San Antonio. 

It was evident, however, that this figure, eccentric as it 
was, was expected at the hacienda^ and recognised as having 
an infportance beyond its antique social distinction. For, 
when Mr. Perkins drew up in the courtyard, the grave 
major domo at once ushered him into the formal, low- 
studded drawing-room already described in these pages, 
and in another instant the Donna Dolores Salvatierra stood 
before him. 

With a refined woman’s delicacy of perception, Donna 
Dolores instantly detected under this bizarre exterior 
something that atoned for it, which she indicated by the 
depth of the half-formal curtsey she made it. Mr. Perkins 
met the salutation with a bow equally formal and respect¬ 
ful. He was evidently agreeably surprised at his reception, 
and impressed with her manner. But like most men of 
ill-assured social position, he was a trifle suspicious and 
on the defensive. With a graceful gesture of her fan, the 
Donna pointed to a chair, but her guest remained standing. 

“ / am a stranger to you, Senor, but you are none to 
me,” she said, with a gracious smile. “ Before I ventured 
upon the boldness of seeking this interview, your intelli¬ 
gence, your experience, your honourable report was already 
made known to me by your friends. Let me call myself 
one of these—even before I break the business for which 
I have summoned you.” 

The absurd figure bowed again, but even through the 
pitiable chalk and cosmetics of its complexion, an embar 


233 


An Expert, 

rassed colour showed itself. Donna Dolores noticed it, 
but delicately turned toward an old-fashioned secretary, 
and opened it, to give her visitor time to recover himsell 
She drew from a little drawer a folded, legal-looking 
document, and then placing two chairs beside the secre¬ 
tary, seated herself in one. Thus practically reminded of 
his duty, Mr. Perkins could no longer decline the proffered 
seat 

“ I suppose,” said Donna Dolores, that my business, 
although familiar to you generally—although you are 
habitually consulted upon just such questions—may seem 
strange to you, when you frankly learn my motives. Here 
is a grant purporting to have been made to my—father— 
the late Don Josd Salvatierra. Examine it carefully, and 
answer me a single question to the best of your judgment” 
She hesitated, and then added—“ Let me say, before you 
answer yes or no, that to me there are no pecuniary 
interests involved—nothinr- that should make you hesitate 
to express an opinion which you might be called upon 
legally to prove. That you will never be required to give. 
Your answer will be accepted by me in confidence; will 
not, as far as the world Is concerned, alter the money value 
of this document—will leave you free hereafter to express 
a different opinion, or even to reverse your judgment 
publicly if the occasion requires it. You seem astounded, 
Senor Perkins. But I am a rich woman. I have no need 
to ask your judgment to increase my wealth.” 

“ Your question is ”- said Mr. Perkins, speaking for 

the first time without embarrassment. 

" Is that document a forgery ? ” 

He took it out of her hand, opened it with a kind of 
professional carelessness, barely glanced at the signature 
and seals, and returned it 

“ The signatures a;e genuine,” he said, with businesi- 



234 


Gabriel Conroy, 

like brevity; then he added, as if in explanation of that 
brevity, “ I have seen it before.” 

Donna Dolores moved her chair with the least show of 
uneasiness. The movement attracted Mr. Perkins’ atten¬ 
tion. It was something novel. Here was a woman who 
appeared actually annoyed that her claim to a valuable 
property was valid. He fixed his eyes upon her curiously. 

“ Then you think it is a genuine grant ? ” she said, with 
a slight sigh. 

“ As genuine as any that receive a patent at Washing¬ 
ton,” he replied, promptly. 

“Ah!” said Donna Dolores, simply. The feminine 
interjection appeared to put a construction upon Senor 
Perkins’ reply that both annoyed and challenged him. 
He assumed the defensive. 

“ Have you any reason to doubt the genuineness of this 
particular document ? ” 

“ Yes. It was only recently discovered among Don 
Jose’s papers, and there is another in existence.” 

Senor Perkins again reached out his hand, took the 
paper, examined it attentively, held it to the light and 
then laid it down. “ It is all right,” he said. “ Where is 
the other ? ” 

“ I have it not,” said Donna Dolores. 

Senor Perkins shrugged his shoulders respectfully as to 
Donna Dolores, but scornfully of an unbusiness-like sex. 
“ How did you expect me to institute a comparison ? ” 

“ There is no comparison necessary if that document is 
genuine,” said the Donna, quickly. 

Senor Perkins was embarrassed for a moment. “ I 
mean there might be some mistake. Under what circum¬ 
stances is it held—who holds it ? To whom was it 
given ? ” 

“ Tliat is a part of my story. It was given five years 


An Expert. 235 

ago to a Dr. Devarges—I beg your pardon, did you 
speak ? ” 

Senor Perkins had not spoken, but was staring with 
grim intensity at Donna Dolores. “ You—said—Dr. 
Devarges,” he repeated, slowly. 

“Yes. Did you know him?” It was Donna Dolores' 
turn to be embarrassed. She bit her lip and slightly con¬ 
tracted her eyebrows. For a moment they both stooil on 
the defensive. 

“ I have heard the name before,” Mr. Perkins said at 
last, with a forced laugh. 

“ Yes, it is the name of a distinguished savant,'^ said 
Donna Dolores, composedly. “ Well —he is dead. But 
he gave this grant to a young girl named—named”— 
Dolores paused as if to recall the name—“ named Grace 
Conroy.” 

She stopped and raised her eyes quickly to her com¬ 
panion, but his face was unmoved, and his momentary 
excitement seemed to have passed. He nodded his head 
for her to proceed. 

“ Named Grace Conroy,” repeated Donna Dolores, more 
rapidly, and with freer breath. “After the lapse of five 
years a woman-^an impostor—appears to claim the grant 
under the name of Grace Conroy. But perhaps finding 
difficulty in carrying out her infamous scheme, by some 
wicked, wicked art, she gains the affections of the brother 
of this Grace, and marries him as the next surviving heir.” 
And Donna Dolores paused, a little out of breath, with a 
glow under her burnished cheek and a slight metallic 
quality in her voice. It was perhaps no more than the 
natural indignation of a quickly sympathising nature, but 
Mr. Perkins did not seem to notice it. In fact, within 
the last few seconds his whole manner had become absent 
wd preoccupied; the stare which he had fixed a moment 


236 Gabriel Conroy. 

before on Donna Dolores was now turned to the wall, and 
his old face, under its juvenile mask, looked still older. 

“ Certainly, certainly,” he said at last, recalling himself 
with an effort ** But all this only goes to prove that the 
grant may be as fraudulent as the owner. Then, you have 
nothing really to make you suspicious of your own claim 
but the fact of its recent discovery? Well, that I don’t 
think need trouble you. Remember your grant was given 
when lands were not valuable, and your late father might 
have overlooked it as unimportant.” He rose with a 
slight suggestion in his manner that the interview had 
closed. He appeared anxious to withdraw, and not en¬ 
tirely free from the same painful pre-absorption that he 
had lately shown. With a slight shade of disappointment 
in her face Donna Dolores also rose. 

In another moment he would have been gone, and the 
lives of these two people thus brought into natural yet 
mysterious contact have flowed on unchanged in each 
monotonous current. But as he reached the door he 
turned to ask a trivial question. On that question trem¬ 
bled the future of both. 

“This real Grace Conroy then I suppose has dis¬ 
appeared. And this—Doctor—Devarges ”—he hesitated 
at the name as something equally fictitious—“ you say is 
dead. How then did this impostor gain the knowledge 
necessary to set up the claim ? Who is she 7 ” 

“ Oh, she is—that is—she married Gabriel Conroy under 
the name of the widow of Dr. Devarges. Pardon me ! I 
did not hear what you said. Holy Virgin 1 What is the 
matter? You are ill. Let me call Sanchez! Sit here 1 ” 

He dropped into a chair, but only for an instant As 
she turned to call assistance he rose and caught her by the 
arm. 

** 1 am better,” he said. “ It is nothing—I am oflten 


237 


A n Expert. 

taken in this way. Don’t look at me. Don’t call any¬ 
body except to get me a glass of water—there, that will 
do.” 

He took the glass she brought him, and instead of 
drinking it threw back his head and poured it slowly over 
his forehead and face as he leaned backward in the chair. 
Tlien he drew out a large silk handkerchief and wiped his 
face and hair until they were dry. Then he sat up and 
faced her. The chalk and paint was off his face, his high 
stock had become unbuckled, he had unbuttoned his coat 
and it hung loosely over his gaunt figure; his hair, al¬ 
though still dripping, seemed to have become suddenly 
bristling and bushy over his red face. But he was perfectly 
self-possessd?d, and his voice had completely lost its pre¬ 
vious embarrassment. 

“ Rush of blood to the head,” he said, quietly; “ felt it 
coming on all the morning. Gone now. Nothing like 
cold water and sitting posture. Hope I didn’t spoil your 
carpet. And now to come back to your business.” He 
drew up his chair, without the least trace of his former 
diffidence, beside Donna Dolores. ‘‘Let’s take another 
look at your grant.” He took it up, drew a small magni¬ 
fying glass from his pocket and examined the signature. 
“ Yes, yes ! signature all right. Seal of the Custom House. 
Paper all regular.” He rustled it in his fingers. “ You’re 
all right—the swindle is with Madame Devarges. There’s 
the forgery—there’s this spurious grant.” 

“ I think not,” said Donna Dolores, quietly. 

“ Why?” 

“Suppose the grant is exactly like this in everything, 
paper, signature, seal and all.” 

“That proves nothing,” said Mr. Perkins, quickly. 
“ Look you. When this grant was drawn—in the early 
Jays—there were numbers of these grants lying in the 


238 Gabriel Conroy, 

Custom House like waste paper, drawn and signed by the 
Governor, in blank, only wanting filling in by a clerk to 
make them a valid document. She !—this impostor—this 
Madame Devarges, has had access to these blanks, as 
many have since the American Conquest, and that grant 
is the result. But she is not wise, no ! I know the 
handwriting of the several copyists and clerks—I was 
one myself. Put me on the stand, Donna Dolores— 
put me on the stand, and I’ll confront her as I have the 
others.” 

“ You forget,” said Donna Dolores, coldly, ‘‘ that I have 
no desire to legally test this document. And if Spanish 
grants are so easily made, why might not this one of mine 
be a fabrication? You say you know the handwriting of 
the copyists—look at this.” 

Mr. Perkins seized the grant impatiently, and ran his eye 
quickly over the interlineations between the printed portions. 
“ Strange ! ” he muttered. “ This is not my own nor 
Sanchez; nor Ruiz; it is a new hand. Ah I what have we 
here—a correction in the date—in still another hand? 
And this—surely I have seen something like it in the office. 
But where ? ” He stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, 
but after an effort at recollection abandoned the attempt 
“ But why ? ” he said, abruptly, “ why should this be 
forged ? ” 

“Suppose that the other were genuine, and suppose that 
this woman got possession of it in some wicked way. 
Suppose that some one, knowing of this, endeavoured by 
this clever forgery to put difficulties in her way without 
exposing her.” 

“ But who would do that ? ” 

“ Perhaps the brother—her husband ! Perhaps some 
one,” continued Donna Dolores, embarrassedly, with the 
colour struggling through her copper cheek, “some—one 


A 71 Expert. 239 

—who—did—not—believe that the real Grace Conroy was 
dead or missing ! ” 

“ Suppose the devil!—I beg your pardon. But people 
don’t forge documents in the interests of humanity and 
justice. And why should it be given X.q> you V 

** I am known to be a rich woman,” said Donna Dolores. 
“ I believe,” she added, dropping her eyes with a certain 
proud diffidence that troubled even the preoccupied man 
before her, “ I—believe—that is I am told—that I have a 
reputation for being liberal, and—and just.” 

Mr. Perkins looked at her for a moment with undisguised 
admiration. “ But • suppose,” he said, with a bitterness 
that seemed to grow out of that very contemplation, 
“suppose this woman, this adventuress, this impostor, 
were a creature that made any such theory impossible. 
Suppose she were one who could poison the very life and 
soul of any man—to say nothing of the man who was legally 
bound to her; suppose she were a devil who could deceive 
the mind and heart, who could make the very man she was 
betraying most believe her guiltless and sinned against; 
suppose she were capable of not even the weakness of 
passion; but that all her acts were shrewd, selfish, pre¬ 
calculated even to a smile or a tear—do you think such 
a woman—whom, thank God ! such as you cannot even 
imagine—do you suppose such a woman would not have 
guarded against even this? No ! no !” 

“Unless,” said Donna Dolores, leaning against the 
secretary with the glow gone from her dark face and a 
strange expression trembling over her mouth, “unless it 
were the revenge of some rival.” 

Her companion started. “ Good ! It is so,” he muttered 
to himself, “/would have done it. I could have done 
it 1 You are right, Donna Dolores.” He walked to the 
window and then came hurriedly back, buttoning his coat 


240 


Gabriel Conroy, 

as he did so, and rebuckling his stock. “ Some one is 
coming ! Leave this matter with me. I will satisfy you 
and myself concerning this affair. Will you trust this paper 
with me ? ” Donna Dolores without a word placed it in 
his hand. “ Thank you,” he said, with a slight return of 
his former embarrassment, that seemed to belong to his 
ridiculous stock and his buttoned coat rather than any 
physical or moral quality. “ Don’t believe me entirely 
disinterested either,” he added, with a strange smile. 

A dtos.” 

She would have asked another question, but at that 
instant the clatter of hoofs and sound of voices arose from 
the courtyard, and with a hurried bow he was gone. The 
door opened again almost instantly to the bright laughing 
face and coquettish figure of Mrs. Sepulvida. 

“ Well ! ” said that little lady, as soon as she recovered 
her breath. “ For a religiously inclined young person and 
a notorious recluse, I must say you certainly have more 
masculine company than falls to the lot of the worldly. 
Here I ran across a couple of fellows hanging around the 
casa as I drove up, and come in only to find you closeted 
with an old exquisite. Who was it—another lawyer, dear? 
I declare, it’s too bad. I have only one ! ” 

“ And that one is enough, eh ? ” smiled Donna Dolores, 
somewhat gravely, as she playfully tapped Mrs. Sepulvida’s 
fair cheek with her fan. 

“ Oh yes ! ” she blushed a little coquettishly—“ of 
course! And here I rode over, post haste, to tell you the 
news. But first, tell me who is that wicked, dashing-look¬ 
ing fellow outside the courtyard ? It can’t be the lawyer’s 
clerk.” 

“I don’t know who you mean; but it is, I suppose,” 
said Donna Dolores, a little wearily. “But tell me thf 
news. T am all attention.’' 


241 


An Expert. 

But Mrs. Sepulvida ran to the deep embrasured window 
and peeped out. “It isn’t the lawyer, for he is driving 
away in his buggy, as if he were hurrying to get out of the 
fog, and my gentleman still remains. Dolores I ” said Mrs. 
Sepulvida, suddenly facing her friend with an expression of 
mock gravity and humour, “ this won’t do! Who is that 
cavalier ? ” 

With a terrible feeling that she was about to meet the 
keen eyes of Victor, Donna Dolores drew near the window 
from the side where she could look out without being her¬ 
self seen. Her first glance at the figure of the stranger 
satisfied her that her fears were unfounded; it was not 
Victor. Reassured, she drew the curtain more boldly. 
At that instant the mysterious horseman wheeled, and she 
met full in her own the black eyes of Mr. Jack Hamlin. 
Donna Dolores instantly dropped the curtain and turned 
to her friend. 

“ I don’t know ! ” 

“Truly, Dolores?” 

“Truly, Maria.” 

“Well, I believe you. I suppose then it must be 
me I 

Donna Dolores smiled, and playfully patted Mrs. Sepul- 
vida’s joyous face. 

“Well, then?” she said invitingly. 

“ Well, then,” responded Mrs. Sepulvida, half in embar- 
rc.6sment and half in satisfaction. 

“The news I” said Donna Dolores. 

“ Oh—well,” said Mrs. Sepulvida, ith mock deliberation, 
“ it has come at last! ” 

“ It has ? ” said Donna Dolores, looking gravely at her 
friend. 

“ Yes. He has been there again to-day.” 

vo^. tv. Q 


242 


Gabriel Conroy. 

“x\nd he asked you?” said Donna Dolores, opening her 
»an and turning her face toward the window. 

“He asked me.” 

“ And you said ”- 

Mrs. Sepulvida tripped gaily toward the window and 
looked out. 

“ I said ”- 

“What?” 

«NOI” 


BOOK V. 


THE VEIN. 


CHAPTER 1. 

IW WHICH GABRIEL RECOGNISES THE PROPRIETIES. 

After the visit of Mr. Peter Dumphy, One Horse Gulch 
was not surprised at the news of any stroke of good fortune. 
It was enough that he, the great capitalist, the successful 
speculator, had been there ! The information that a com¬ 
pany had been formed to develop a rich silver mine recently 
discovered on Conroy’s Hill was received as a matter of 
course. Already the theories of the discovery were per¬ 
fectly well established. That it was simply a grand specu¬ 
lative coup of Dumphy’s—that upon a boldly conceived plan 
this man intended to build up the town of One Horse Gulch 
—that he had invented “ the lead ” and backed it by an 
ostentatious display of capital in mills and smelting works 
solely for a speculative purpose; that five years before he 
had selected Gabriel Conroy as a simple-minded tool foi 
this design ; that Gabriel’s Two and One Half Millions was 
merely an exaggerated form of expressing the exact wages— 
One Thousand dollars a year, which was all Dumphy had 
paid him for the use of his name, and that it was the duty 
of every man to endeavour to realise quickly on the advance 


244 


Gabriel Ccnroy, 

of property before this enormous bubble burst—this was the 
theory of one-half the people of One Horse Gulch. On the 
other hand, there was a large party who knew exactly the 
reverse. That the whole thing was purely accidental; that 
Mr. Peter Dumphy being called by other business to One 
Horse Gulch, while walking with Gabriel Conroy one day 
had picked up a singular piece of rock on Gabriel’s claim, 
and had said, “ This looks like silver; ” that Gabriel Conroy 
had laughed at the suggestion, whereat Mr. Peter Dumphy, 
who never laughed, had turned about curtly and demanded 
in his usual sharp business way, “Will you take Seventeen 
Millions for all your right and title to this claim ? ” That 
Gabriel—“ you know what a blank fool Gabe is ! ”—had 
assented, “ and this way, sir, actually disposed of a property 
worth, on the lowest calculation. One Hundred and Fifty 
Millions.” This was the generally accepted theory of the 
other and more imaginative portion of One Horse Gulch. 

Howbeit within the next few weeks following the advent 
of Mr. Dumphy, the very soil seemed to have quickened 
through that sunshine, and all over the settlement pieces of 
plank and scantling—thin blades of new dwellings—started 
up under that beneficent presence. On the bleak hill sides 
the more extensive foundations of the Conroy Smelting 
Works were laid. The modest boarding-house and restau¬ 
rant of Mrs. Markle was found inadequate to the wants and 
inconsistent with the greatness of One Horse Gulch, and a 
new hotel was erected. But here I am anticipating another 
evidence of progress—namely, the daily newspaper, in 
which these events were reported with a combination of 
ease and elegance one may envy yet never attain. Said the 
Thnes 


“The Grand Conroy House, now being inaugurated, will be man. 
tged by Mrs. Susan Markle, whose talents as a che/ de cuisine are as 
well known to One Horse Gulch as her rare social graces and magni* 


Gabriel recognises the Proprieties, 245 

ficent personal charms. She will be aided by her former accomplished 
assistant, Miss Sarah Clark. As hash-slinger, Sal can walk over 
anything of her weight in Plumas.” 

With these and other evidences of an improvement in 
public taste, the old baleful title of “ One Horse Gulch ” 
was deemed incongruous. It was proposed to change that 
name to “ Silveropolis,” there being, in the figurative lan¬ 
guage of the Gulch, ‘*more than one horse could draw.” 

Meanwhile, the nominal and responsible position of Super¬ 
intendent of the new works was filled by Gabriel, although 
the actual business and executive duty was performed by a 
sharp, snappy young fellow of about half Gabriel’s size, 
supplied by the Company. This was in accordance with 
the wishes of Gabriel, who could not bear idleness ; and the 
Company, although distrusting his administrative ability, 
wisely recognised his great power over the workmen through 
the popularity of his easy democratic manners, and his 
disposition always to lend his valuable physical assistance 
fn cases of emergency. Gabriel had become a great 
favourite with the men ever since they found that pro¬ 
sperity had not altered his simple nature. It was pleasant 
to them to be able to point out to a stranger this plain, 
unostentatious, powerful giant, working like themselves, and 
with themselves, with the added information that he owned 
half the mine, and was worth Seventeen Millions ! Always 
a shy and rather lonely man, his wealth seemed to have 
driven him, by its very oppressiveness, to the society of his 
humble fellows for relief. A certain deprecatoriness of 
manner whenever his riches were alluded to, strengthened 
the belief of some in that theory that he was merely the 
creature of Dumphy’s speculation. 

Although Gabriel was always assigned a small and 
insignificant part in the present prosperity of One Horse 
Gulch, it was somewhat characteristic of the peculiar 


246 Gabriel Conroy, 

wrongheadedness of this community that no one ever 
suspected his wife of any complicity in it. It had been 
long since settled that her superiority to her husband was 
chiefly the feminine charm of social grace and physical 
attraction. That, warmed by the sunshine of affluence, 
this butterfly would wantonly flit from flower to flower, and 
eventually quit her husband and One Horse Gulch for 
some more genial clime, was never doubted. “ Shefll 
make them millions fly ef she hez to fly with it,” was the 
tenor of local criticism. A pity, not unmixed with con¬ 
tempt, was felt for Gabriel’s apparent indifference to this 
prophetic outlook; his absolute insensibility to his wife’s 
ambiguous reputation was looked upon as the hopelessness 
of a thoroughly deceived man. Even Mrs. Markle, whose 
attempts to mollify Oily had been received coldly by that 
young woman—even she was a convert to the theory of 
the complete domination of the Conroy household by this 
alien and stranger. 

But despite this baleful prophecy, Mrs. Conroy did not 
fly nor show any inclination to leave her husband. A new 
house was built, with that rapidity of production that 
belonged to the climate, among the pines of Conroy’s Hill, 
which on the hottest summer day still exuded the fresh 
sap of its green timbers and exhaled a woodland spicery. 
Here the good taste of Mrs. Conroy flowered in chintz, 
and was always fresh and feminine in white muslin curtains 
and pretty carpets, and here the fraternal love of Gabriel 
brought a grand piano for the use of Oily, and a teacher. 
Hither also came the best citizens of the county—even the 
notabilities of the State, feeling that Mr. Dumphy had, to 
a certain extent, made One Horse Gulch respectable, soon 
found out also that Mrs. Conroy was attractive ; the Hon. 
Blank had dined there on the occasion of his last visit to 
his constituents of the Gulch ; the Hon. Judge Beeswinget 


Gabriel recognises the Proprieties. 247 

had told in her parlour several of his most effective stories. 
Colonel Starbottle’s manly breast had dilated over her 
dish-covers, and he had carried away with him not only a 
vivid appreciation of her charms capable of future eloquent 
expression, but an equally vivid idea of his own fascina¬ 
tions, equally incapable of concealment. Gabriel himself 
rarely occupied the house except for the exigencies of food 
and nightly shelter. If decoyed there at other times by 
specious invitations of Oily, he compromised by sitting on 
the back porch in his shirt sleeves, alleging as a reason his 
fear of the contaminating influence of his short black pipe.' 

“Don’t ye mind me^ July,” he would say, when his 
spouse with anxious face and deprecatory manner would 
waive her native fastidiousness and aver that “ she liked 
it.” “ Don’t ye mind me, I admire to sit out yer. I’m a 
heap more comfortable outer doors, and alius waz. I 
reckon the smell might get into them curtings, and then— 
and then,” added Gabriel, quietly ignoring the look of 
pleased expostulation with which Mrs. Conroy recognised 
this fancied recognition of her tastes, “and then Ollps 
friends and thei teacher^ not being round like you and me 
allez and used to it, they mightn’t like it. And I’ve heerd 
that the smell of nigger-head terbacker do git inter the 
strings of a pianner and kinder stops the music. A pian- 
ner’s a mighty cur’us thing. I’ve heerd say they’re as 
dilikit and ailin’ ez a child. Look in ’em and see them 
little strings a twistin’ and crossin’ each other like the reins 
of a six mule team, and it ’taint no wonder they gets 
mixed up often.” 

It was not Gabriel’s way to notice his wife’s manner very 
closely, but if he had at that moment he might have 
fancied that there were other instruments whose fine chords 
were as subject to irritation and discordant disturbance. 
Perhaps only vaguely conscious of some womanish sullen 


248 Gabriel Conroy. 

ness on his wife’s part, Gabriel would at such times dis¬ 
engage himself as being the possible disorganising element, 
and lounge away. His favourite place of resort was his 
former cabin, now tenantless and in rapid decay, but which 
he had refused to dispose of, even after the erection of 
his two later dwellings rendered it an unnecessary and 
unsightly encumbrance of his lands. He loved to lingel 
by the deserted hearth and smoke his pipe in solitude, not 
from any sentiment, conscious or unconscious, but from a 
force of habit, that was in this lonely man almost as 
pathetic. 

He may have become aware at this time that a certain 
growing disparity of sentiment and taste which he had be¬ 
fore noticed with a vague pain and wonder, rendered his 
gradual separation from Oily a necessity of her well-doing. 
He had indeed revealed this to her on several occasions 
with that frankness which was natural to him. He had 
apologised with marked politeness to her music teacher, 
who once invited him to observe Oily’s proficiency, by say¬ 
ing in general terms that he “ took no stock in chimes. I 
reckon it’s about ez easy. Miss, if ye don’t ring me in. 
Thet chile’s got to get on without thinkin’ o’ me—or my 
’pinion—allowin’ it was wuth thinkin’ on.” Once meeting 
Oily walking with some older and more fashionable school 
friends whom she had invited from Sacramento, he had 
delicately avoided them with a sudden and undue conscious¬ 
ness of his great bulk, and his slow moving intellect, pain¬ 
fully sensitive to what seemed to him to be the preternatural 
quickness of the young people, and turned into a by-path. 

On the other hand, it is possible that with the novelty of 
her new situation, and the increased importance that wealth 
brought to Oily, she had become more and more oblivious 
of her brother’s feelings, and perhaps less persistent in her 
endeavours to draw him toward her. She knew that he 


Gabriel recognises the Proprieties, 249 

had attained an equal importance among his fellows from 
this very wealth, and also a certain evident, palpable, super¬ 
ficial respect which satisfied her. With her restless ambi¬ 
tion and the new life that was opening before her, his 
slower old-fashioned methods, his absolute rusticity—that 
day by day appeared more strongly in contrast to his 
surroundings—began to irritate where it had formerly only 
touched her sensibilities. From this irritation she at last 
escaped by the unfailing processes of youth and the fasci¬ 
nation of newer impressions. And so, day by day and houi 
by hour, they drifted slowly apart. Until one day Mrs. 
Conroy was pleasantly startled by an announcement from 
Gabriel, that he had completed arrangements to send Oily 
to boarding-school in Sacramento. It was understood, 
also, that this was only a necessary preliminary to the de¬ 
parture of herself and husband for a long-promised tour 
of Europe. 

As it was impossible for one of Gabriel’s simple nature 
to keep his plans entirely secret. Oily was perfectly aware 
of his intention, and prepared for the formal announcement, 
which she knew would come in Gabriel’s quaint serious way. 
In the critical attitude which the child had taken toward 
him, she was more or less irritated, as an older person 
might have been, with the grave cautiousness with which 
Gabriel usually explained that conduct and manner which 
was perfectly apparent and open from the beginning. It 
was during a long walk in which the pair had strayed among 
the evergreen woods, when they came upon the little dis¬ 
mantled cabin. Here Gabriel stopped. Oily glanced 
around the spot and shrugged her shoulders. Gabriel, more 
mindful of Oily’s manner than he had ever been of any 
other of her sex, instantly understood it. 

“It ain’t a purty place. Oily,” he began, rubbing his 
hands, “ but we’ve had high ole times yer—you and me. 


250 Gabriel Conroy. 

Don’t ye mind the nights I used to kem up from the gulch 
and pitch in to mendin’ your gownds, Oily, and you asleep ? 
Don’t ye mind that—ar dress I copper fastened?” and 
Gabriel laughed loudly, and yet a little doubtfully. 

Oily laughed too, but not quite so heartily as her brother, 
and cast her eyes down upon her own figure. Gabriel 
followed the direction of her glance. It was not perhaps 
easy to re-create in the figure before him the outrd little 
waif who such a short time—such a long time—ago had sal 
at his feet in that very cabin. It is not alone that Oily was 
better dressed, and her hair more tastefully arranged, but 
she seemed in some way to have become more refined 
and fastidious—a fastidiousness that was plainly an out¬ 
growth of something that she possessed but he did not. As 
he looked at her, another vague hope that he had fostered 
—a fond belief that as she grew taller she would come to 
look like Grace, and so revive the missing sister in his 
memory—this seemed to fade away before him. Yet it was 
characteristic of the unselfishness of his nature, that he did 
not attribute this disappointment to her alone, but rather to 
some latent principle in human nature whereof he had been 
ignorant. He had even gone so far as to invite criticism 
on a hypothetical case from the sagacious Johnson. “ It’s 
the difference atween human natur and brute natur,” that 
philosopher had answered promptly. “Apurp’s the same 
purp allez, even arter it’s a grown dorg, but a child ain’t— 
it’s the difference atween reason and instink.” 

But Oily, to whom this scene recalled another circum¬ 
stance, did not participate in Gabriel’s particular reminis¬ 
cence. 

“ Don’t you remember, Gabe,” she said, quickly, “ the 
first night that sister July came here and stood right in that 
very door? Lord ! hew flabergasted we was to be sure* 
And if anybody’d told me, Gabe, that she was going to 


Gabriel recognises the Proprieties. 251 

marry you —I’d, I’d a knocked ’em down,” she blurted out, 
after hesitating for a suitable climax. 

Gabriel, who in his turn did not seem to be particularly 
touched with Oily’s form of reminiscence, rose instantly 
above all sentiment in a consideration of the proprieties. 
“Ye shouldn’t talk o’ knockin’ people down. Oily—it ain’t 
decent for a young gal,” he said, quickly. “Not that I 
mind it,” he added, with his usual apology, “ but allowin’ 
that some of them purty little friends o’ yours or teacher 
now, should hear ye ! Sit down for a spell. Oily. I’ve 
suthin’ to tell ye.” 

He took her hand in his, and made her sit beside him 
on the rude stone that served as the old doorstep of the 
cabin. 

“ Maybe ye miglit remember,” he went on, lightly lifting 
her hand in Ins, and striking it gently across his knee to 
beget an easy confidential manner, “ maybe ye might 
remember that I allers allowed to do two things ef ever I 
might make a strike—one was to give you a good schoolin’ 
—the other was to find Grace, if so be as she was above 
the yearth. They waz many ways o’ finding out—many 
ways o’ settin’ at it, but they warn’t my ways. I alius 
allowed that ef thet child waz in harkenin’ distance o’ the 
reach o’ my call, she’d hear me. I mout have took other 
men to help me—men ez was sharp in them things, men 
ez was in that trade—but I didn’t. And why ? ” 

Oily intimated by an impatient shake of her head that 
she didn’t know. 

“ Because she was that shy and skary with strangers. 
Ye disremember how shy she was. Oily, in them days, for 
ye was too young to notice. And then, not bein’ shy 
yourself, but sorter peart, free and promisskiss, ready and 
able to keep up your end of a conversation with anybody, 
and alius ez chipper as a jay-bird—why, ye don’t kinde* 


1^2 Gabriel Conroy. 

allow that fur Gracy as I do. And thar was reasons why 
that purty chile should be shy—reasons ye don’t under¬ 
stand now, Oily, but reasons pow’ful and strong to such a 
child as thet.” 

“ Ye mean, Gabe,” said the shamelessly direct Oily, 
** that she was bashful, hevin’ ran away with her bo.” 

That perplexity which wiser students of human nature 
than Gabriel have experienced at the swift perception of 
childhood in regard to certain things left him speechless. 
He could only stare hopelessly at the little figure before 
him. 

“ Well, wot did j'eu do, Gabe ? Go on! ” said Oily, 
impatiently. 

Gabriel drew a long breath. 

“Thar bein’ certing reasons why Gracy should be 
thet shy—reasons consarning propperty o’ her deceased 
parients,” boldly invented Gabriel, with a lofty ignoring of 
Oily’s baser suggestion, “I reckoned that she should get 
the first word from we and not from a stranger. I knowed 
she warn’t in Californy, or she’d hev seen them handbills I 
issued five years ago. V/hat did I do ? Thar is a paper 
wot’s printed in New York, called the Herald. Thar is a 
place in that thar paper whar they print notisses to people 
that is fur, fur away. They is precious words from fathers 
to their sons, from husbands to their wives, from brothers 
to sisters, ez can’t find each other, from ”- 

“ From sweethearts to thar bo’s,” said Oily, briskly ; “ I 
know.” 

Gabriel paused in speechless horror. 

“Yes,” continued Oily. “They calls ’em ‘Personals.’ 
Lord ! I know all ’bout them. Gals get bo’s by them, 
Gabe ! ” 

Gabriel looked up at the bright, arching vault above him. 
Yet it did not darken nor split into fragments. And hf 


Gabriel recognises the Proprieties. 253 

hesitated. Was it worth while to go on ? Was there any¬ 
thing he could tell this terrible child—his own sister— 
which she did not already know better than he ? 

“ I wrote one o' them Pursonals,” he went on to say, 
doggedly, “in this ways.” He paused, and fumbling in 
his waistcoat pocket, finally drew out a well-worn news¬ 
paper slip, and straightening it with some care from its 
multitudinous enfoldings, read it slowly, and with that 
peculiar patronising self-consciousness which- distinguishes 
the human animal in the rehearsal of its literary com¬ 
position. 

“ Ef G. C. will communicate with sufferin’ and anxious friends, she 
will confer a favour on ole Gabe. I will come and see her, and Oily 
will rise up and welcome her. Ef G. C. is sick or don’t want to 
come she will write to G. C. G. C. is same as usual, and so is Oily. 
All is well. Address G. C., One Horse Gulch, Californy—till further 
notiss.” 

“ Read it over again,” said Oily. 

Gabriel did so, readily. 

“Ain’t it kinder mixed up with them G. C.’s?’’ queried 
the practical Oily. 

“Not for she,” responded Gabriel, quickly, “that’s just 
what July said when I showed her the ‘ Pursonal.’ But I 
sed to her as I sez to you, it taint no puzzle to Gracy. 
She knows ez our letters is the same. And ef it ’pears 
queer to strangers, wots the odds? Thet’s the idee ov a 
‘pursonal’ Howsomever, it’s all right. Oily. Fur,” he 
continued, lowering his voice confidentially, and drawing 
his sister closer to his side, “//j bin anseredf^* 

“ By Grace ? ” asked Oily. 

“No,” said Gabriel, in some slight confusion, “not by 
Grace, exactly—that is—but yer’s the anser.” He drew 
from his bosom a small chamois-skin purse, such as 
miners used for their loose gold, and extracted the more 


254 Gabriel Conroy. 

precious slip. “ Read it,” he said to Oily, turning away 
his head. 

Oily eagerly seized and read the paper. 

** G. C.—Look no more for the missing one who will never return. 
Look at home. Be happy.—P. A.” 

Oily turned the slip over in her hands. ‘‘ Is that all?" 
she asked, in a higher key, with a rising indignation in her 
pink cheeks. 

“ That’s all,” responded Gabriel; “ short and shy—that’s 
Gracy, all over.” 

“ Then all I got to say is it’s mean ! ” said Oily, bringing 
her brown fist down on her knee. “And that’s wot I’d 
say to that thar P. A.—that Philip Ashley—if I met him.” 

A singular look, quite unlike the habitual placid, good- 
humoured expression of the man, crossed Gabriel’s face as 
he quietly reached out and took the paper from Oily’s 
hand. 

“Thet’s why I’m goin’ off,” he said, simply. 

“ Goin’ off,” repeated Oily. 

“ Goin’ off—to the States. To New York,” he responded, 
“July and me. July sez—and she’s a peart sort o’ woman 
in her way, ef not o’ your kind. Oily,” he interpolated, 
apologetically, “but pow’ful to argyfy and plan, and she 
allows ez New York ’ud nat’rally be the stampin’ ground o’ 
sich a high-toned feller ez him. And that’s why I want to 
talk to ye. Oily. Thar’s only two things ez ’ud ever part 
you and me, dear, and one on ’em ez this very thing—it’s 
my dooty to Gracy, and the other ez my dooty to you. Et 
ain’t to be expected that when you oughter be gettin’ your 
edykation you’d be cavortin’ round, the world with me. 
And you’ll stop yer at Sacramento in a A-i first-clasi 
school, ontil I come back. Are ye hark’nin’, dear?” 

“Yes” said Oily, fixing her clear eyes on her brother. 


Gabriel recognises the Proprieties, 255 

"And ye ain’t to worrit about me. And it ’ud be as 
well, Oily, ez you’d forget all ’bout this yer gulch, and the 
folks. Fur yer to be a lady, and in bein’ thet brother Gabe 
don’t want ennythin’ to cross ye. And I want to say to 
thet feller, Oily, ‘Ye ain’t to jedge this yer fammerly by me, 
fur the men o’ that fammerly gin’rally speakin’ runs to size, 
and ain’t, so to speak, strong up yer,’ ” continued Gabriel], 
placing his hands on his sandy curls; “ ‘ but thar’s a little 
lady in school in Californy ez is jest what Gracy would hev 
bin if she’d had the schoolin’. And ef ye wants to converse 
with her she kin give you pints enny time.’ And then I 
brings you up, and nat’rally I reckon thet you ain’t goin’ 
back on brother Gabe—in ’stronomy, grammar, ’rithmetic 
and them things.” 

“ But wot’s the use of huntin’ Grace if she says she’ll 
never return ? ” said Oily, sharply. 

“Ye musn’t read them ‘ pursonals ’ ez ef they was square. 
They’re kinder conundrums, ye know—puzzles. It says 
G. C. will never return. Well, s’pose G. C. has another 
name. Don’t you see?” 

“ Married, maybe,” said Oily, clapping her hands. 

“ Surely,” said Gabriel, with a slight colour in his cheeks. 
"Thet’s so.” 

“But s’pose it doesn’t mean Grace after all?” persisted 
Oily. 

Gabriel was for a moment staggered. 

“But July sez it does,” he answered, doubtfully. 

Oily looked as if this evidence was not entirely satis¬ 
factory, 

“ But what does ‘ look at home ’ mean ? ” she con¬ 
tinued. 

“ Thet’s it,” said Gabriel, eagerly. “ Thet reads—‘ Look 
at little Oily—ain’t she there ? ’ And thet’s like Gracy— 
alius thinkin’ o’ somebody else.” 


256 Gabriel Conroy. 

“Well,” said Oily, “I’ll stop yer, and let you go. But 
wot are you goin^ to do without me ? ” 

Gabriel did not reply. The setting sun was so nearly 
level with his eyes that it dazzled them, and he was fain to 
hide them among the clustering curls of Oily, as he held 
the girl’s head in both his hands. After a moment he 
said— 

“ Do ye want to know why I like this old cabin and thia 
yer chimbly. Oily ? ” 

“Yes,” said Oily, whose eyes were also affected by 
the sun, and who was glad to turn them to the object 
indicated. 

“ It ain’t because you and me hez sot there many and 
many a day, fur that’s suthin’ that we ain’t goin’ to think 
about any more. It’s because. Oily, the first lick I ever 
struck with a pick on this hill was just yer. And I raised 
this yer chimbly with the rock. Folks thinks thet it was 
over yonder in the slope whar I struck the silver lead, thet 
I first druv a pick. But it warn’t. And I sometimes 
think. Oily, that I’ve had as much square comfort outer 
thet first lick ez I’ll ever get outer the lead yonder. But 
come. Oily, come! July will be wonderin’ whar you is, 
and ther’s a stranger yonder cornin’ up the road, and I 
reckon I ain’t ez fine a lookin’ bo ez a young lady ez you 
ez, orter to co-mand. Never mind. Oily, he needn’t know 
ez you and me is any relashuns. Come ! ” 

In spite of Gabriel’s precautionary haste, the stranger, 
who was approaching by the only trail which led over the 
rocky hillside, perceived the couple, and turned toward 
them interrogatively. Gabriel was forced to stop, not 
however, without first giving a slight reassuring pressure to 
Oily’s hand. 

“ Can you tell me the way to the hotel—the Grand Conroy 
House I think they call it ? ” the traveller asked politely. 


Guests at the Grand Conroy. 257 

He would have been at any time an awe-inspiring and 
aggressive object to One Horse Gulch and to Gabriel, and 
at this particular moment he was particularly discomposing. 
He was elaborately dressed, buttoned and patent-leather 
booted in the extreme limit of some bygone fashion, and 
had the added effrontery of spotless ruffled linen. As 
he addressed Gabriel he touched a tall black hat, sacred 
in that locality to clergymen and gamblers. To add to 
Gabriels discomfiture, at the mention of the Grand 
Conroy House he had felt Oily stiffen aggressively under 
his hand. 

“ Toiler this yer trail to the foot of the hill, and ye’ll 
strike Main Street; that’ll fetch ye than I’d go with ye a 
piece, but I’m imployed,” said Gabriel, with infinite tact 
and artfulness, accenting each word with a pinch of Oily’s 
arm, “ imployed by this yer young lady’s friends to see her 
home, and bein’ a partikler sort o’ fammerly, they makes a 
row when I don’t come reg’lar. Axin’ your parding, don’t 
they. Miss ? ” and to stop any possible retort from Oily 
before she could recover from her astonishment, he had 
hurried her into the shadows of the evergreen pines of 
Conroy Hill. 


CHAPTER II. 

TRANSIENT GUESTS AT THE GRAND CONROY. 

The Grand Conroy Hotel was new, and had the rare 
virtue of comparative cleanliness. As yet the odours of 
bygone dinners, and forgotten suppers, and long dismissed 
breakfasts had not possessed and permeated its halls and 
passages. There was no distinctive flavour of preceding 
guests in its freshly* clothed and papered rooms. There 
was a certain virgin coyness about it, and even the active 
VOL. IV. R 


*58 Gabriel Conroy. 

ministration of Mrs. Markle and Sal was delicately veiled 
from the public by the interposition of a bar-keeper and 
Irish waiter. Only to a few of the former habituh did 
these ladies appear with their former frankness and infor¬ 
mality. There was a public parlour, glittering with gilt 
framed mirrors and gorgeous with red plush furniture, 
which usually froze the geniality of One Horse Gulch, 
and repressed its larger expression, but there was a little 
sitting-room beyond sacred to the widow and her 
lieutenant Sal, where visitors were occasionally admitted. 
Among the favoured few who penetrated this arcana was 
Lawyer Maxwell. He was a widower, and was supposed 
to have a cynical distrust of the sex that was at once a 
challenge to them and a source of danger to himself. 

Mrs. Markle was of course fully aware that Mrs. Conroy 
had been Maxwell’s client, and that it was while on a 
visit to him she had met with the accident that resulted 
in her meeting with Gabriel. Unfortunately Mrs. Markle 
was unable to entirely satisfy herself if there had been any 
previous acquaintance. Maxwell had declared to her that 
to the best of his knowledge there had been none, and 
that the meeting was purely accidental. He could do this 
without violating the confidence of his client, and it is fair 
to presume that upon all other matters he was loyally 
uncommunicative. That Madame Devarges had consulted 
him regarding a claim to some property was the only infor¬ 
mation he imparted. In doing this, however, he once 
accidentally stumbled, and spoke of Mrs. Devarges as 
“Grace Conroy.” Mrs. Markle instantly looked up. “I 
mean Mrs. Conroy,” he said hastily. 

“ Grace—that was his sister who was lost—wasn’t it ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Maxwell, demurely, “did he ever talk 
touch to you about her?” 

“No-o,” said Mrs. Markle, with great frankness, “he and 


259 


Guests at the Grand Conroy. 

me only talked on gin’ral topics; but from what Oily used 
to let on, I reckon that sister was the only woman he ever 
loved.” 

Lawyer Maxwell, who, with an amused recollection of 
his extraordinary interview with Gabriel in regard to the 
W’oman before him, was watching her mischievously, sud¬ 
denly became grave. “I guess you’ll find, Mrs. Markle, 
that his present wife amply fills the place of his lost sister,” 
he said, more seriously than he had intended. 

“ Never,” said Mrs. Markle, quickly. “ Not she—the 
designin’, crafty hussy ! ” 

“I am afraid you are not doing her justice,” said Maxwell, 
wiping away a smile from his lips, after his characteristic 
habit; “ but then it’s not strange that two bright, pretty 
women are unable to admire each other. What reason 
have you to charge her With, being designing?” he asked 
again, with a sudden return of his former seriousness. 

“Why, her marryin’ him,” responded Mrs. Markle, 
frankly; “ look at that simple, shy, bashful critter, do you 
suppose he’d marry her—marry any woman—that didn’t 
throw herself at his head, eh?” 

Mrs. Markle’s pique was so evident that even a philoso¬ 
pher like Maxwell could not content himself with referring 
it to the usual weakness of the sex. No man cares to have 
a woman exhibit habitually her weakness for another man, 
.^ven when he possesses the power of restraining it. He 
answered somewhat quickly as he raised his hand to his 
mouth to wipe away the smile that, however, did not come. 
“ But suppose that you—and others—are mistaken in 
Gabriel’s character. Suppose all this simplicity and shy¬ 
ness is a mask. Suppose he is one of the most perfect and 
successful actors on or off the stage. Suppose he should 
turn out to have deceived everybody—even his present 
5irife ! ”—and Lawyer Maxwell stopped in time. 


26 o Gabriel Conroy, 

Mrs. Markle instantly fired. “ Suppose fiddlesticks and 
flapjacks ! I’d as soon think o’ suspectin’ thet child,” she 
said, pointing to the unconscious Manty. “You lawyers are 
alius suspectin’ what you can’t understand ! ” She paused 
as Maxwell wiped his face again. “ What do you mean 
anyway—why don’t yer speak out? What do you know 
of him?” 

“ Oh, nothing ! only it’s as fair to say all this of him as 
of her—on about the same evidence. For instance, here’s 
a simple, ignorant fellow ”- 

“ He ain’t ignorant,” interrupted Mrs. Markle, sacrificing 
argument to loyalty. 

“ Well, this grown-up child ! He discovers the biggest 
lead in One Horse Gulch, and manages to get the shrewdest 
financier in California to manage it for him, and that too 
after he has snatched up an heiress and a pretty woman 
before the rest of ’em got a sight of her. That may be 
simplicity; but my experience of guilelessness is that, 
ordinarily, it isn’t so lucky.” 

“They won’t do him the least good, depend upon it,” 
said Mrs. Markle, with the air of triumphantly closing the 
argument. 

It is very possible that Mrs. Markle’s dislike was sustained 
and kept alive by Sal’s more active animosity, and the strict 
espionage that young woman kept over the general move¬ 
ments and condition of the Conroys. Gabriel’s loneliness, 
his favourite haunt on the hillside, the number and quality 
of Mrs. Conroy’s visitors, even fragments of conversation 
held in the family circle, were all known to Sal, and re¬ 
delivered to Mrs. Markle with Sal’s own colouring. It is 
possible that most of the gossip concerning Mrs. Conroy 
already hinted at, had its origin in the views and observa¬ 
tions of this admirable young woman, who did not confine 
her confidences entirely to her mistress. And when one 



26% 


Guests at the Grand Conroy, 

day a stranger and guest, staying at the Grand Conroy 
House, sought to enliven the solemnity of breakfast by social 
converse with Sal regarding the Conroys, she told him 
nearly everything that she had already told Mrs. Markle. 

I am aware that it is alleged that some fascinating quality 
in this stranger’s manner and appearance worked upon the 
susceptible nature and loosened the tongue of this severe 
virgin, but beyond a certain disposition to minister person¬ 
ally to his wants, to hover around him archly with a greater 
quantity of dishes than that usually offered the transient 
guest, and to occasionally expatiate on the excellence of 
some extra viand, there was really no ground for the report. 
Certainly, the guest was no ordinary man ; was quite unlike 
the regular habituh of the house, and perhaps to some 
extent justified this favouritism. He was young, sallow¬ 
faced, with very white teeth and skin, yellow hands, and a 
tropical, impulsive manner, which Miss Sarah Clark gener¬ 
ally referred to as “ Eyetalian.” I venture to transcribe 
something of his outward oral expression. 

“ I care not greatly for the flapjack, nor yet for the dried 
apples,” said Victor, whom the intelligent reader has at 
once recognised, “but a single cup of coffee sweetened by 
those glances and offered by those fair hands—which I 
Kiss !—are to me enough. And you think that the Mees- 
trees Conroy does not live happily with her husband. Ah ! 
fou are wise, you are wise, Mees Clark, I would not for 
much money find myself under these criticism, eh ? ” 

“ Well, eyes bein’ given to us to see with by the Lord’s 
holy will, and it ain’t for weak creeturs like us to misplace 
our gifts or magnify ’em,” said Sal, in shrill, bashful con¬ 
fusion, allowing an underdone fried egg to trickle from the 
plate on the coat-collar of the unconscious Judge Bees- 
winger, “ I do say when a woman sez to her husband, ez 
she’s sworn to honour and obev, ‘ This yer’s my house, and 


262 Gabriel Conroy, 

this yer’s my land, and yer kin git,’ thar ain’t much show 
o’ happiness thar. Ef it warn’t for bearin’ this with my own 
ears, bein’ thar accidental like, and in a sogial way, I 
wouldn’t hev believed it. And she allowin’ to be a lady, 
and afeared to be civil to certain folks ez is ez good ez she 
and far better, and don’t find it necessary to git married to 
git a position—and could hev done it a thousand times 
over ef so inclined. But folks is various and self praise is 
open disgrace. Let me recommend them beans. The 
pork, ez we alius kills ourselves fur the benefit o’ transient 
gests, bein’ a speciality.” 

“ It is of your kindness, Mees Clark, I am already full. 
And of the pork I touch not, it is an impossibility,” said 
Victor, showing every tooth in his head. It is much 
painful to hear of this sad, sad affair. It is bad—and yet 
you say he has riches—this man. Ah ! the what is the 
world. See, the great manner it has treated those ! No, I 
will not more. I am sufficient now. Ah ! eh ! what have 
we here ? ” 

He lowered his voice and eyes as a stranger—the antique 
dandy Gabriel had met on Conroy’s hill the evening before 
—rose from some unnoticed .seat at a side table, and uncon¬ 
cernedly moved away. Victor instantly recognised the card 
player of San Antonio, his former chance acquaintance of 
Pacific Street, and was filled with a momentary feeling of 
suspicion and annoyance. But Sal’s sotto voce reply that 
the stranger was a witness attending court seemed to be a 
reasonable explanation, and the fact that the translator did 
not seem to recognise him promptly relieved his mind. 
When he had gone Sal returned to her confidences ; “ E». 
to his riches, them ez knows best hez their own say o’ that. 
Thar was a party yer last week—gents ez was free with 
their money, and not above exchanging the time o’ day 
with working folk, and though it ain’t often ez me oi 


Guests at the Grand Conroy, 263 

Sue Markle dips into conversation with entire strangers, 
yet,” continued Sal, with parenthetical tact and courtesy, 
“Eyetalians,—furrinersin a strange land bein’ an exception 
—and them gents let on thet thet vein o’ silver on Conroy’s 
hill hed been surveyed and it wazent over a foot wide, and 
would be played out afore a month longer, and thet old 
Peter Dumphy knowed it, and hed sold out, and thet thet’s 
tne reason Gabriel Conroy was goin’ off—jest to be out o’ 
the way when the killapse comes.” 

Gabriel! going away, Mees Sal ? this is not possible ! ” 
ejaculated the fascinating guest, breathing very hard, and 
turning all his teeth in a single broadside upon the suscep¬ 
tible handmaid. At any other moment, it is possible that 
Sal might have been suspicious of the stranger’s excitement, 
but the fascination of his teeth held and possessed this 
fluttering virgin. 

“Ef thar ever waz a man ez had an angelic smile,” she 
intimated afterwards in confidence to Mrs. Markle, “ it waz 
thet young Eyetalian.” She handed him several dishes, 
some of them em^uy, in her embarrassment, and rejoined 
with an affectation of arch indignation, “ Thank ye fur say- 
in’ ‘ I lie,’—and it’s my pay fur bein’ a gossip and ez good 
ez I send—but thar’s Olympy Conroy packed away to 
school fur six months, and thar’s the new superintendent 
ez is come up to take Gabriel’s situation, and he a sittin’ 
in a grey coat next to ye a minit ago ! Eh ? And ye won’t 
take nothin’ more? Appil or cranbear’ pie?—our own 
make ? I’m afeerd ye ain’t made out a dinner ! ” But 
Victor had already risen hurriedly and departed, leaving Sal 
in tormenting doubt whether she had not in her coquettish 
indignation irritated the tropical nature of this sensitive 
Italian. *’l orter allowed fur his bein’a furriner and not 
bin so free. Pore young man I I thought he did luk tuk 


264 Gabriel Conroy, 

back when I jest allowed that he said I lied.” And with a 
fixed intention of indicating her forgiveness and goodwill 
the next morning by an extra dish, Sal retired somewhat 
dejectedly to the pantry. She made a point, somewhat 
later, of dusting the hall in the vicinity of Victor’s room, 
but was possibly disappointed to find the door open, and the 
tenant absent. Still later, she imparted some of this inter 
view to Mrs. Markle with a certain air of fatigued polite¬ 
ness and a suggestion that, in the interest of the house 
solely, she had not repressed perhaps as far as maidenly 
pride and strict propriety demanded, the somewhat extra¬ 
vagant advances of the stranger. “ I’m sure,” she added, 
briskly, “ why he kept a lookin’ and a talkin’ at me in that 
way, mind can’t consave, and transients did notiss. And 
if he did go off mad, why, he kin git over it.” Having 
thus delicately conveyed the impression of an ardent 
Southern nature checked in its exuberance, she became 
mysteriously reticent and gloomy. 

It is probable that Miss Clark’s theory of Gabriel’s 
departure was not original with her, or entirely limited to 
her own experience. A very decided disapprobation of 
Gabriel’s intended trip was prevalent in the gulches and 
bar-room. He quickly lost his late and hard-earned popu¬ 
larity ; not a few questioned his moral right to leave One 
Horse Gulch until its property was put beyond a financial 
doubt in the future. The men who had hitherto ignored 
the proposition that he was in any way responsible for the 
late improvement in business, now openly condemned him 
for abandoning the position they declared he never had. 
The Silveropolis Messenger talked vaguely of the danger of 
“ changing superintendents ” at such a moment, and hinted 
that the stock of the company would suffer. The rival 
paper—for it was found that the interests of the town 


Guests at the Grand Conroy. 265 

required a separate and distinct expression—had an edi¬ 
torial on absenteeism,” and spoke, crushingly, of those 
men who, having enriched themselves out of the resources 
of One Horse Gulch, were now seeking to dissipate that 
wealth in the excesses of foreign travel. 

Meanwhile, the humble object of this criticism, oblivious 
in his humility of any public interest in his movements or 
intentions, busied himself in preparations for his departure. 
He had refused the offer of a large rent for his house from 
the new superintendent, but had retained a trusty servant 
to keep it with a view to the possible return of Grace. 

Ef thar mout ever come a young gal yer lookin’ fur me,” 
he said privately to this servant, “ yer not to ax any ques¬ 
tions, partiklaly ef she looks sorter shy and bashful, but ye’ll 
gin her the best room in the house, and send to me by 
igspress, and ye needn’t say anythin’ to Mrs. Conroy about 
it.” Observing the expression of virtuous alarm on the face 
of the domestic—she was a married woman of some come¬ 
liness who was not living with her husband on account of 
his absurdly jealous disposition—he added hastily, “ She’s 
a young woman o’ proputty ez hez troubil about it, and 
wishes to be kep’ secret,” and, having in this way thoroughly 
convinced his handmaid of the vileness of his motives and 
the existence of a dark secret in the Conroy household, 
ne said no more, but paid a flying visit to Oily, secretly, 
packed away all the remnants of his deceased mother’s 
wardrobe, cut (God knows for what purpose) small patches 
from the few old dresses that Grace had worn that were 
still sacredly kept in his wardrobe, and put them in his 
pocket-book ; wandered in his usual lonely way on the hill¬ 
side, and spent solitary hours in his deserted cabin; avoided 
the sharp advances of Mrs. Markle, who once aggressively 
met him in his long post-prandial walks, as well as the shy 
propinquity of his wife, who wouVd fain have delayed him 


266 Gabriel Conroy, 

in her bower, and so having after the fashion of his sex 
made the two women who loved him exceedingly uncom¬ 
fortable, he looked hopefully forward to the time when he 
should be happy without either. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH MR. DUMPHY TAKES A HOLIDAY. 

It was a hot day on the California coast. In the memory 
of the oldest American inhabitant its like had not been 
experienced, and although the testimony of the Spanish 
Californian was deemed untrustworthy where the interests 
of the American people were concerned, the statement that 
for sixty years there had been no such weather was accepted 
without question. The additional fact, vouchsafed by Don 
Pedro Peralta, that the great earthquake which shook down 
the walls of the Mission of San Juan Bautista had been 
preceded by a week of such abnormal meteorology, was 
promptly suppressed as being of a quality calculated to 
check immigration. Howbeit it was hot. The usual after¬ 
noon trade-winds had pretermitted their rapid, panting 
breath, and the whole coast lay, as it were, in the hush of 
death. The evening fogs that always had lapped the wind- 
abraded surfaces of the bleak seaward hills were gone too; 
the vast Pacific lay still and glassy, glittering, but intoler¬ 
able. The outlying sand dunes, unmitigated by any breath 
of air, blistered the feet and faces of chance pedestrians. 
For once the broad verandahs, piazzas, and balconies of 
San Francisco cottage architecture were consistent and 
serviceable. People lingered upon them in shirt-sleeves, 
with all the exaggeration of a novel experience. French 
windows, that had always been barred against the fierce 
afternoon winds, were suddenly thrown open; that brisk, 


Mr. Dumphy takes a Holiday. 267 

energetic step, with which the average San Franciscan 
hurried to business or pleasure, was changed to an idle, 
purposeless lounge. The saloons were crowded with 
thirsty multitudes, the quays and wharves with a people 
who had never before appreciated the tonic of salt air; 
the avenues leading over the burning sand-hills to the 
ocean all day were thronged with vehicles. The numerous 
streets and by-ways, abandoned by their great scavenger, 
the wind, were foul and ill-smelling. For twenty-four 
hours business was partly forgotten; as the heat continued 
and the wind withheld its customary tribute, there were 
some changes in the opinions and beliefs of the people; 
doubts were even expressed of the efficacy of the climate; 
a few heresies were uttered regarding business and social 
creeds, and Mr. Dumphy and certain other financial 
magnates felt vaguely that if the thermometer continued 
to advance the rates of interest must fall correspondingly. 

Equal to even this emergency, Mr. Dumphy had sat in 
his office all the morning, resisting with the full strength of 
his aggressive nature any disposition on the part of his 
customers to succumb financially to the unusual weather. 
Mr. Dumphy’s shirt-collar was off; with it seemed to have 
departed some of his respectability, and he was perhaps, 
on the whole, a trifle less imposing than he had been. 
Nevertheless, he was still dominant, in the suggestion of 
bis short bull neck, and two visitors who entered, observing 
•.he deshabille of this great man, felt that it was the proper 
thing for them to instantly unbutton their own waistcoats 
and loosen their cravats. 

“ It’s hot,” said Mr. Pilcher, an eminent contractor. 

“You bet!” responded Mr. Dumphy. “Must be awful 
on the Atlantic coast! People dying by hundreds of sun¬ 
stroke ; that’s the style out there. Here there’s nothing of 
the kind ! A man stands things here that he couldn’t there.” 


268 Gabriel Conroy, 

Having thus re-established the supremacy of the Cali¬ 
fornia climate, Mr. Dumphy came directly to business- 
Bad news from One Horse Gulch! ” he said, quickly. 

As that was the subject his visitors came to speak about 
—a fact of which Mr. Dumphy was fully aware—he added, 
sharply, “What do you propose?” 

Mr. Pilcher, who was a large stockholder in the Conroy 
mine, responded, hesitatingly, “ We’ve heard that the lead 
opens badly.” 

“D-n bad!” interrupted Dumphy. “What do you 

propose ?” 

“ I suppose,” continued Mr. Pilcher, “ the only thing to 
do is to get out of it before the news becomes known.” 

“No!” said Dumphy, promptly. The two men stared 
at each other. “No!” he continued, with a quick, short 
laugh, which was more like a logical expression than a 
mirthful emotion. “ No, we must hold on, sir! Look 
yer! there’s a dozen men as you and me know, that we 
could unload to to-morrow. Suppose we did ? Well, what 
happens 1 They go in on four hundred thousand—that’s 
about the figures we represent. Well. They begin to 
examine and look around; them men, Pilcher ”—(in Mr. 
Dumphy’s more inspired moods he rose above considera¬ 
tions of the English grammar)—“ them men want to know 
what that four hundred thousand’s invested in ; they ain’t 
goin’ to take our word after we’ve got their money—that’s 
human nature—and in twenty-four hours they find they’re 
sold ! That don’t look well for me nor you—does it?” 

There was not the least assumption of superior honour 
or integrity—indeed, scarcely any self-consciousness or 
sentiment of any kind, implied in this speech—yet it 
instantly affected both of these sharp business men, who 
might have been suspicious of sentiment, with an impression 
of being both honourable and manly. Mr. Pilcher’s com 



Mr. Dumphy takes a Holiday. 269 

panion, Mr. Wyck, added a slight embarrassment to his re¬ 
ception of these great truths, which Mr. Dumphy noticed. 

“ No,” he went on; “ what we must do is this. Increase 
the capital stock just as much again. That will enable us 
to keep everything in our hands—news and all—and if it 
should leak out afterwards, we have half a dozen others 
with us to keep the secret. Six months hence will ’be time 
to talk of selling ; just now buying is the thing! You don’t 
believe it?—eh? Well, Wyck, I’ll take yours at the figure 
you paid. What do you say ?—quick ! ” 

Mr. Wyck, more confused than appeared necessary, de¬ 
clared his intention of holding on; Mr. Pilcher laughed, 
Mr. Dumphy barked behind his hand. 

“That offer’s open for ninety days—will you take it? 
No ! Well, then, that’s all! ” and Mr. Dumphy turned 
again to his desk. Mr. Pilcher took the hint, and drew 
Mr. Wyck away. 

“ Devilish smart chap, that Dumphy ! ” said Pilcher, as 
they passed out of the door. 

“ An honest man, by-! ” responded Wyck. 

When they had gone Mr. Dumphy rang his bell. “ Ask 

Mr. Jaynes to come and see me at once. D-n it, go 

now I You must get there before Wyck does. Run!” 

The clerk disappeared. In a few moments Mr. Jaynes, 
a sharp but very youthful looking broker, entered the office 
parlour. “ Mr. Wyck will want to buy back that stock he 
put in your hands this morning, Jaynes. I thought I’d tell 
you, it’s worth 50 advance now ! ” 

The precocious youth grinned intelligently and departed. 
By noon of that day it was whispered that notwithstanding 
the rumours of unfavourable news from the Conroy mine, 
one of the heaviest stockholders had actually bought back, 
at an advance of $50 per share, some stock he had pre¬ 
viously sold. More thac that, it was believed that Mr. 


2 70 Gabriel Conroy, 

Dumphy had taken advantage of these reports, and was 
secretly buying. In spite of the weather, for some few 
hours there had been the greatest excitement. 

Possibly from some complacency arising from this, pos¬ 
sibly from some singular relaxing in the atmosphere, Mr. 
Dumphy at two o’clock shook off the cares of business and 
abandoned himself to recreation—refusing even to take 
cognisance of the card of one Colonel Starbottle, which 
was sent to him with a request for an audience. At half¬ 
past two he was behind a pair of fast horses, one of a 
carriage-load of ladies and gentlemen, rolling over the 
scorching sandhills towards the Pacific, that lay calm and 
cool beyond. As the well-appointed equipage rattled up 
the Bush Street Hill, many an eye was turned with envy 
and admiration toward it. The spectacle of two pretty 
women among the passengers was perhaps one reason; the 
fact that everybody recognised in the showy and brilliant 
driver the celebrated Mr. Rollingstone, an able financier 
and rival of Mr. Dumphy’s, was perhaps equally potent. 
For Mr. Rollingstone was noted for his “ turnout,*’ as well 
as for a certain impulsive South Sea extravagance and 
picturesque hospitality which Dumphy envied and at times 
badly imitated. Indeed, the present excursion was one of 
Mr. Rollingstone’s famous fetes champetres^ and the present 
company was composed of the klite of San Francisco, and 
made self-complacent and appreciative by an enthusiastic 
Eastern tourist. 

Their way lay over shifting sand dunes, now motionless 
and glittering in the cruel, white glare of a Californian sky, 
only relieved here and there by glimpses of the blue bay 
beyond, and odd marine-looking buildings, like shells 
icattered along the beach, as if they had been cast up and 
forgotten by some heavy tide. Farther on, their road 
skirted the base of a huge solitary hill, broken in outline 


M 7 \ Dumphy takes a Holiday, 271 

by an outcrop of gravestones, sacred to the memory of 
worthy pioneers who had sealed their devotion to the 
“ healthiest climate in the world ” with their lives. Occa¬ 
sionally these gravestones continued to the foot of the hill, 
where, struggling with the drifting sand, they suggested a 
half-exhumed Pompeii to the passing traveller. They were 
the skeletons at the feast of every San Francisco pleasure- 
seeker, the memento mori of every picnicing party, and were 
visible even from the broad verandahs of the suburban 
pavilions, where the gay and thoughtless citizen ate, drank, 
and was merry. Part of the way the busy avenue was 
parallel with another, up which, even at such times, occa¬ 
sionally crept the lugubrious procession of hearse and 
mourning coach to other pavilions, scarcely less crowded, 
where there were “ funeral baked meats,” and sorrow and 
tears. And beyond this again was the grey eternal sea, 
and at its edge, perched upon a rock, and rising out of the 
very jaws of the gushing breakers, a stately pleasure dome, 
decreed by some speculative and enterprising San Fran¬ 
cisco landlord—the excuse and terminus of this popular 
excursion. 

Here Rollingstone drew up, and, alighting, led his party 
into a bright, cheery room, whose windows gave upon the 
sea. A few other guests, evidently awaiting them, were 
mitigating their impatience by watching the uncouth 
gambols of the huge sea-lions, who, on the rocks beyond, 
offered a contrast to the engaging and comfortable interior 
that was at once pleasant and exciting. In the centre of 
the room a table overloaded with overgrown fruits and 
grossly large roses somewhat ostentatiously proclaimed the 
coming feast! 

Here we are ! ” said Mr. Dumphy, bustling into the 
room with that brisk, business-like manner which his 
friends fondly believed was frank cheerfulness, “and on 


272 Gabriel Conroy, 

time, too ! ” he added, drawing out his watch. “ Inside 
of thirty minutes—how*s that, eh ? ” He clapped his 
nearest neighbour on the back, who, pleased with this 
familiarity from a man worth five or six millions, did not 
stop to consider the value of this celerity of motion in a 
pleasure excursion on a hot day. 

‘^Well!” said Rollingstone, looking around him, “you 
all know each other, I reckon, or will soon. Mr. Dumphy, 
Mr. Poinsett, Mr. Pilcher, Mr. Dyce, Mr. Wyck, Mrs. 
Sepulvida and Miss Rosey Ringround, gentlemen; Mr. 
and Mrs. Raynor, of Boston. There, now, that’s through ! 
Dinner’s ready. Sit down anywhere and wade in. No 
formality, gentlemen—this is California.” 

There was, perhaps, some advantage in this absence of 
ceremony. The guests almost involuntarily seated them¬ 
selves according to their preferences, and Arthur Poinsett 
found himself beside Mrs. Sepulvida, while Mr. Dumphy 
placed Miss Ringround—a pretty though boyish-looking 
blonde, slangy in speech and fashionable in attire—on his 
right hand. 

The dinner was lavish and luxurious, lacking nothing but 
restraint and delicacy. There was game in profusion, fat 
but flavourless. The fruits were characteristic. The enor¬ 
mous peaches were blowsy in colour and robust in fibre; the 
pears were prodigious and dropsical, and looked as if they 
wanted to be tapped ; the strawberries were overgrown and 
yet immature—rather as if they had been arrested on their 
way to become pine-apples; with the exception of the 
grapes, which were delicate in colour and texture, the fruit 
might have been an ironical honouring by nature of Mr. 
Dumphy’s lavish drafts. 

It is probable, however, that the irony was lost on the 
majority of the company, who were inclined to echo the 
extravagant praise of Mr. Raynor, the tourist. “ Wonder 


Mr, Dumphy takes a Holiday, 273 

ful! wonderful! ” said that gentleman ; if I had not seen 
this I wouldn’t have believed it. Why, that pear would 
make four of ours.” 

That’s the way we do things here,” returned Dumphy, 
with the suggestion of being personally responsible for 
these abnormal growths. He stopped suddenly, for he 
caught Arthur Poinsett’s eye. Mr. Dumphy ate little in 
public, but he was at that moment tearing the wing of a 
grouse with his teeth, and there was something so peculiar 
and characteristic in the manner that Arthur looked up 
with a sudden recollection in his glance. Dumphy put 
down the wing, and Poinsett resumed his conversation with 
Mrs. Sepulvida. It was not of a quality that interruption 
seriously impaired ; Mrs. Sepulvida was a charming but 
not an intellectual woman, and Mr. Poinsett took up the 
lost thread of his discourse quite as readily from her eyes 
as her tongue. 

‘‘To have been consistent, Nature should have left a 
race of giants here,” said Mr. Poinsett, meditatively. “ I 
believe,” he added, more pointedly, and in a lower voice, 
“ the late Don Josd was not a large man.” 

“ Whatever he was, he thought a great deal of me! ” 
pouted Mrs. Sepulvida. 

Mr. Poinsett was hastening to say that if “taking 
thought ” like that could add a “ cubit to one’s stature,” he 
himself was in a fair way to become a son of Anak, when 
he was interrupted by Miss Rosey— 

“ What’s all that about big men ? There are none here. 
They’re like the big trees. They don’t hang around the coast 
much ! You must go to the mountains for your Goliahs.” 

Emboldened quite as much by the evident annoyance of 
her neighbour as the amused look of Arthur Poinsett, she 
went on— 

“I have seen the pre-hist3ric man!—the original 

VOL. IV. s 


274 Gabriel Conroy. 

athletic sh/<rp ! He is seven feet high, is as heavy as a 
sea-lion, and has shoulders like Tom Hyer. He slings an 
awful left. He’s got blue eyes as tender as a seal’s. He 
has hair like Samson before that woman went back on 
him. He’s as brave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb. 
He blushes like a girl, or as girls used to \ I wish I could 
start up such a colour on even double the provocation ! ” 

Of course everybody laughed—it was the usual tribute of 
Miss Rosey’s speech—the gentlemen frankly and fairly, the 
ladies perhaps a little doubtfully and fearfully. Mrs. Sepul- 
vida, following the amused eyes of Arthur, asked Miss 
Rosey patronisingly where she had seen her phenomenon. 

“ Oh, it’s no use, my dear, positively—no use. He’s 
married. These phenomena always get married. No, 1 
didn’t see him in a circus, Mr. Dumphy, nor in a 
menagerie, Mr. Dyce, but in a girls’ school ! ” 

Everybody stared; a few laughed as if this were an amus¬ 
ing introduction to some possible joke from Miss Rosey. 

“ I was visiting an old schoolmate at Madame Eclair’s 
Pension at Sacramento ; he was taking his little sister to 
the same school,” she went on, coolly, “ so he told me. I 
love my love with a G, for he is Guileless and Gentle. 
His name is Gabriel, and he lives in a Gulch.” 

“ Our friend the superintendent—I’m blessed,” said 
Dyce, looking at Dumphy. 

“Yes; but not so very guileless,” said Pilcher, “eh, 
Dyce ? ” 

The gentlemen laughed; the ladies looked at each other 
and then at Miss Ringround. That fearless young woman 
was equal to the occasion. 

“ What have you got against my giant ? Out with it! ” 

“ Oh, nothing,” said Mr. Pilcher; “ only your guileless 
eimple friend has played the sharpest game on record in 
Montgomery Street.” 


Mr. Dumphy takes a Holiday. 275 

“ Go on ! said Miss Rosey. 

“ Shall I ? ” asked Pilcher of Dumphy. 

Dumphy laughed his short laugh. Go on.” 

Thus supported, Mr. Pilcher assumed the ease of a 
graceful raconteur. “ Miss Rosey’s guileness friend, ladies 
and gentlemen, is the superintendent and shareholder in a 
certain valuable silver mine in which Dumphy is laigely 
represented. Being about to leave the country, and 
anxious to realise on his stock, he contracted for the sale 
of a hundred shares at $1000 each, with our friend Mr. 
Dyce, the stocks to be delivered on a certain date—ten 
days ago. Instead of the stock, that day comes a letter 
from Conroy—a wonderful piece of art—simple, ill-spelled, 
and unbusiness-like, saying, that in consequence of recent 
disappointment in the character and extent of the lead, he 
shall not hold Dyce to his contract, but will release him. 
Dyce, who has already sold that identical stock at a pretty 
profit, rushes off to Dumphy’s broker, and finds two hun¬ 
dred shares held at $1200. Dyce smells a large-sized rat, 
writes that he shall hold Gabriel to the performance of his 
contract, makes him hand over the stock, delivers it in 
time, and then loads up again with the broker’s 200 at 
$1200 for a rise. That rise don’t come—won’t come—for 
that sale was Gabriel’s too —as Dumphy can tell you. 
There’s guilelessness ! There’s simplicity ! And it cleared 
a hundred thousand by the operation.” 

Of the party none laughed more heartily than Arthur 
Poinsett. Without analysing his feelings he was conscious 
of being greatly relieved by this positive evidence of 
Gabriel’s shrewdness. And when Mrs. Sepulvida touched 
his elbow, and asked if this were not the squatter who held 
the forged grant, Arthur, without being conscious of any 
special meanness, could not help replying with unnecessary 
significance that it was. 


276 Gabriel Conroy. 

I believe the whole dreadful story that Donna Dolores 
told me,” said she^ “ how he married the woman who per¬ 
sonated his sister, and all that—the deceitful wretch.” 

“ I’ve got that letter here,” continued Mr. Pilcher, draw¬ 
ing from his pocket a folded sheet of letter paper. “ It’s a 
curiosity. If you’d like to see the documentary evidence 
of your friend’s guilelessness, here it is,” he added^ turning 
to Miss Ringround. 

Miss Rosey took the paper defiantly, and unfolded it, as 
the others gathered round her, Mr. Dumphy availing him¬ 
self of that opportunity to lean familiarly over the arm of 
her chair. The letter was written with that timid, uncertain 
ink, peculiar to the illiterate effort, and suggestive of an 
occasional sucking of the pen in intervals of abstraction 
or difficult composition. Saving that characteristic, it is 
reproduced literally below ;— 

“ I, Hoss Gulch, Argus the loth. 

•* Dear Sir, —On acount of thar heving ben bad Luck in the Leed 
witch has droped, I rite thes few lins hopping you air Well. I have to 
say we are disapinted in the Leed, it is not wut we thougt it was witch 
is wy I rite thes few lins. now sir purheps you ixpict me to go on with our 
contrak, and furniss you with 100 shars at i Thousin dolls pur shar. It 
issint wuth no i Thousin dols pur shar, far frummit. No sir, it issint, 
witch is wy I rite you thes few lins, and it Woddent be Rite nor squar 
for me to tak it. This is to let you off Mister Dyce, and hopin it ant no 
trubbil to ye, fur I shuddint sell atal things lookin this bad it not bein 
rite nor squar, and hevin’ tor up the contrak atvreen you and me. So 
no more at pressen from yours respectfuly. G. Conroy. 

“ P. S.—You might mind my sayin to you about my sister witch is 
loss sens 1849. If you happind to com acrost any Traks of hers, me bein* 
away, you can send the sam to me in Care of Weis Farko & Co., New 
York Citty, witch is a grate favor and will be pade sure. G. C.” 

“ I don’t care what you say, that’s an honest letter,” said 
Miss Rosey, with a certain decision of character new to the 
experience of her friends, ‘‘as honest and simple as ever was 
written. You can bet your pile on that” 


Mr, Dumphy takes a Holiday, 277 

No one spoke, but the smile of patronising superioritv 
and chivalrous toleration was exchanged by all the gentle- 
men except Poinsett Mr. Dumphy added to his smile his 
short characteristic bark. At the reference to the writer’s 
sister, Mrs. Sepulvida shrugged her pretty shoulders and 
looked doubtingly at Poinsett But to her great astonish¬ 
ment that gentleman reached across the table, took the letter, 
and having glanced over it, said positively, “ You are right, 
Miss Rosey, it is genuine.” 

It was characteristic of Poinsett’s inconsistency that this 
statement was as sincere as his previous assent to the popu¬ 
lar suspicion. When he took the letter in his hand, he at 
once detected the evident sincerity of its writer, and as 
quickly recognised the quaint honesty and simple nature of 
the man he had known. It was Gabriel Conroy, all over. 
More than that, he even recalled an odd memory of Grace 
in this frank directness and utter unselfishness of the brother 
who so plainly had never forgotten her. That all this might 
be even reconcilable with the fact of his marriage to the 
woman who had personated the sister, Arthur easily com¬ 
prehended. But that it was his own duty, after he had im¬ 
pugned Gabriel’s character, to make any personal effort to 
clear it, was not so plain. Nevertheless, he did not answer 
Mrs. Sepulvida’s look, but walked gravely to the window, and 
looked out upon the sea. Mr. Dumphy,who, with the instincts 
of jealousy, saw in Poinsett’s remark onlya desire to ingratiate 
himself with Miss Rosey, was quick to follow his lead. 

It’s a clear case of quien sahe anyway,” he said to 
the young lady, “and maybe you’re right. Joe, pass the 
champagne.” 

Dyce and Pilcher looked up inquiringly at their leader, 
who glanced meaningly towards the open-mouthed Mr. 
Raynor, whose astonishment at this sudden change in public 
sentiment was unbounded. 


2/8 Gabriel Conroy. 

“But look here,” said that gentleman, “bless my soul I 
if this letter is genuine, your friends here—these gentlemen 
—have lost a hundred thousand dollars ! Don’t you see ? 
If this news is true, and this man’s information is correct, 
the stock really isn’t worth ”- 

He was interrupted by a laugh from Messrs. Dyce and 
Pilcher 

“ That’s so. It would be a devilish good thing on Dyce ! * 
said the latter, good-humouredly. “ And as I’m in myself 
about as much again, I reckon I should take the joke about 
as well as he.” 

“ But,” continued the mystified Mr. Raynor, “ do you 
really mean to say that you have any idea this news is 
true ? ” 

“ Yes,” responded Pilcher, coolly. 

“ Yes,” echoed Dyce, with equal serenity. 

“You do?” 

“ We do.” 

The astonished tourist looked from the one to the other 
with undisguised wonder and admiration, and then turned 
to his wife. Had she heard it ? Did she fully comprehend 
that here were men accepting and considering an actual and 
present loss of nearly a quarter of a million of dollars, as 
quietly and indifferently as if it were a postage stamp ! 
What superb coolness ! What magnificent indifference ! 
What supreme and royal confidence in their own resources. 
Was this not a country of gods ? All of which was delivered 
in a voice that, although pitched to the key of matrimonial 
confidence, was still entirely audible to the gods them¬ 
selves. 

“ Yes, gentlemen,” continued Pilcher; “it’s the fortune 
of war. T’other man’s turn to day, ours to-morrow. Can’t 
afford time to be sorry in this climate. A man’s born again 
here every day. Move along and pass the bottle.” 


Mr, Dumphy takes a Holiday. 279 

What was that ? 

Nothing, apparently, but a rattling of windows and 
shaking of the glasses—the effect of a passing carriage or 
children running on the piazza without. But why had they 
all risen with a common instinct, and with faces bloodless 
and eyes fixed in horrible expectancy? These were the 
questions which Mr. and Mrs. Raynor asked themselves 
hurriedly, unconscious of danger, yet with a vague sense of 
alarm at the terror so plainly marked upon the coun¬ 
tenances of these strange, self-poised people, who, a 
moment before, had seemed the incarnation of reckless 
self-confidence, and inaccessible to the ordinary annoyances 
of mortals. And why were these other pleasure-seekers 
rushing by the windows, and was not that a lady fainting 
in the hall? Arthur was the first to speak and tacitly 
answer the unasked question. 

“ It was from east to west,^’ he said, with a coolness that 
he felt was affected, and a smile that he knew was not mirth¬ 
ful. ** It’s over now, I think.” He turned to Mrs. Sepul- 
vida, who was very white. “ You are not frightened ? Surely 
this is nothing new to you ? Let me help you to a glass 
of wine.” 

Mrs. Sepulvida took it with a hysterical little laugh. Mrs. 
Raynor, who was now conscious of a slight feeling of nausea, 
did not object to the same courtesy from Mr. Pilcher, whose 
hand shook visibly as he lifted the champagne. Mr, 
Dumphy returned from the doorway, in which, to his own 
and everybody’s surprise, he was found standing, and took 
his place at Miss Rosey’s side. The young woman was 
first to recover her reckless hilarity. 

“It was a judgment on you for slandering Nature’s noblest 
specimen,” she said, shaking her finger at the capitalist. 

Mr. Rollingstone, who had returned to the head of his 
table, laughed. 


28 o 


Gabriel Conroy, 

** But what was it ? ” gasped Mr. Raynor, making him¬ 
self at last heard above the somewhat pronounced gaiety of 
the party. 

“ An earthquake,’* said Arthur, quietly. 


CHAPTER IV. 

MR. DUMPHY HAS NEWS OF A DOMESTIC CHARACTER. 

“ An earthquake ! ” echoed Mr. Rollingstone, cheerfully, to 
his guests ; “ now you’ve had about everything we have to 
show. Don’t be alarmed, madam,” he continued to Mrs. 
Raynor, who was beginning to show symptoms of hysteria, 

nobody ever was hurt by ’em.” 

“In two hundred years there hasn’t been as many 
persons killed by earthquakes in California as are struck 
by lightning on your coast in a single summer,” said Mr. 
Dumphy. 

“ Never have ’em any stronger than this,” said Mr. 
Pilcher, with a comforting suggestion of there being an ab¬ 
solute limitation of Nature’s freaks on the Pacific coast. 

“ Over in a minute, as you see,” said Mr. Dumphy, “ and 
—hello ! what’s that ? ” 

In a moment they were on their feet, pale and breath¬ 
less again. This time Mr. Raynor and his wife among the 
number. But it was only a carriage—driving away. 

“ Let us adjourn to the piazza,” said Mr. Dumphy, offer¬ 
ing his arm to Mrs. Raynor with the air of having risen 
solely for that purpose. 

Mr. Dumphy led the way, and the party followed with 
some celerity. Mrs. Sepulvida hung back a moment witli 
Arthur, and whispered— 

“Take me back as soon as you can I” 


News of a Domestic Character, 281 

‘‘ You are not seriously alarmed?” asked Arthur. 

‘‘ We are too near the sea here,” she replied, looking to¬ 
ward the ocean with a slight shudder. “ Don’t ask questions 
now,” she added, a little sharply. “ Don’t you see these 
Eastern people are frightened to death, and they may over¬ 
hear.” 

But Mrs. Sepulvida had not long to wait, for in spite of 
Jhe pointed asseverations of Messrs. Pilcher, Dyce, and 
Dumphy, that earthquakes were not only harmless, but ab¬ 
solutely possessed a sanitary quality, the piazzas were found 
deserted by the usual pleasure-seekers, and even the elo¬ 
quent advocates themselves betrayed some impatience to 
be once more on the open road. 

A brisk drive of an hour put the party again in the highest 
spirits, and Mr. and Mrs. Raynor again into the condition 
of chronic admiration and enthusiasm. 

Mrs. Sepulvida and Mr. Poinsett followed in an open 
buggy behind. When they were fairly upon their way, 
Arthur asked an explanation of his fair companion’s fear 
of the sea. 

“ There is an old story,” said Donna Maria, “ that the 
Point of Pines—you know where it is, Mr. Poinsett—was 
once covered by a great wave from the sea that followed 
an earthquake. But tell me, do you really think that letter 
of this man Conroy is true ? ” 

I do,” said Arthur, promptly. 

, “ And that—there—is—a—prospect—that—the—stock 
of this big mine may—de—pre—ciate in value ? ” 

“ Well—possibly—yes ! ” 

“ And if you knew that I had been foolish enough to 
put a good deal of money in it, you would still talk to me 
as you did the other day—down there ? ” 

“ I should say,” responded Arthur, changing the reins 
to his left hand that his right might be free for some 


282 


Gabriel Conroy, 

purpose—goodness knows what!—“1 should say that 1 
am more than ever convinced that you ought to have some 
person to look after you.” 

What followed this remarkable speech I really do not 
know how to reconcile with the statement that Mrs. 
Sepulvida made to the Donna Dolores a few chapters ago, 
and I theiefore discreetly refrain from transcribing it here. 
Suffice it to say that the buggy did not come up with the 
char-d-banc and the rest of the party until long after they 
had arrived at Mr. Dumphy’s stately mansion on Rincon 
Hill, where another costly and elaborate collation was 
prepared. Mr. Dumphy evidently was in spirits, and had 
so far overcome his usual awe and distrust of Arthur, as 
well as the slight jealousy he had experienced an hour or 
so before, as to approach that gentleman with a degree of 
cheerful familiarity that astonished and amused the self- 
sustained Arthur—who perhaps at that time had more 
reason for his usual conceit than before. Arthur, who 
knew, or thought he knew, that Miss Ringround was only 
coquetting with Mr. Dumphy for the laudable purpose of 
making the more ambitious of her sex miserable, and that 
she did not care for his person or position, was a good 
deal amused at finding the young lady the subject of Mr. 
Dumphy’s sudden confidences. 

“ You see, Poinsett, as a man of business I don’t go as 
much into society as you do, but she seems to be a straight 
up and down girl, eh?” he queried, as they stood together^ 
in the vestibule after the ladies had departed. It is hardly 
necessary to say that Arthur was positive and sincere in his 
praise of the young woman. Mr. Dumphy by some obscure 
mental process, taking much of the praise to himself, was 
highly elated and perhaps tempted to a greater vinous 
indulgence than was his habit. Howbeit the last bottle 
of champagne seemed to have obliterated all past suspicion 


News of a Domestic Character. 283 

of Arthur, and he shook him warmly by the hand. I 
tell ye what now, Poinsett, if there are any points I can 
give you don’t you be afraid to ask for ’em. I can see what’s 
up between you and the widow—honour, you know—all 
right, my boy—she’s in the Conroy lode pretty deep, but 
I’ll help her out and you too! You’ve got a good thing 
there—Poinsett—and I want you to realise. We under¬ 
stand each other, eh? You’ll find me a square man with 
my friends, Poinsett Pitch in—pitch in !—my advice to 
you is to just pitch in and marry the widow. She’s worth 
it—you can realise on her. You see you and me’s—so to 
speak—ole pards, eh? You rek’leck ole times on Sweet¬ 
water, eh ? Well—if you mus’ go, goo’-bi! I s’pose she’s 
waitin’ for ye. Look you, Poinsy, d’ye see this yer posy in 
my buttonhole? She give it to me^ Rosey did! eh? ha! 
ha ! Won’t tak’ nothin’ drink? Lesh open n’or bo’ll. No? 
Goori! ” until struggling between disgust, amusement, and 
self-depreciation, Arthur absolutely tore himself away from 
the great financier and his degrading confidences. 

When Mr. Dumphy staggered back into his drawing¬ 
room, a servant met him with a card. 

The gen’lman says it’s very important business, and he 
must see you to-night,” he said, hastily, anticipating the 
oath and indignant protest of his master. “ He says it’s 
your business, sir, and not his. He’s been waiting here 
since you came back, sir.” 

Mr. Dumphy took the card. It bore the inscription in 
pencil, “ Colonel Starbottle, Siskiyou, oh important busi¬ 
ness.” Mr. Dumphy reflected a moment. The magical 
word '‘business” brought him to himself. “Showhim in— 
in the office,” he said savagely, and retired thither. 

Anybody less practical than Peter Dumphy would have 
dignified the large, showy room in which he entered as the 
library. The rich mahogany shelves were filled with a 


284 Gabriel Conroy, 

heterogeneous collection of recent books, very fresh, very 
new and glaring as to binding and subject; the walls were 
hung with files of newspapers and stock reports. There 
was a velvet-lined cabinet containing minerals—all of them 
gold or silver bearing. There was a map of an island that 
Mr. Dumphy owned—there was a marine view, with a 
representation of a steamship also owned by Mr. Dumphy. 
There was a momentary relief from these facts in a very 
gorgeous and badly painted picture of a tropical forest and 
sea-beach, until inquiry revealed the circumstance that the 
sugar-house in the corner under a palm-tree was “run” by 
Mr. Dumphy, and that the whole thing could be had for 
a bargain. 

The stranger who entered was large and somewhat inclined 
to a corpulency that was, however, restrained in expansion 
by a blue frock coat, tightly buttoned at the waist, which 
had the apparent effect of lifting his stomach into the higher 
thoracic regions of moral emotion—a confusion to which 
its owner lent a certain intellectual assistance. The Colonel’s 
collar was very large, open and impressive ; his black silk 
neckerchief loosely tied around his throat, occupying con¬ 
siderable space over his shirt front, and expanding through 
the upper part of a gilt-buttoned white waistcoat, lent itself 
to the general suggestion that the Colonel had burst his 
sepals and would flower soon. Above this unfolding the 
Colonel’s face, purple, aquiline-nosed, throttle-looking as to 
the eye, and moist and sloppy-looking as to the mouth, up- 
1 ‘ilted above his shoulders. The Colonel entered with that 
tiptoeing celerity of step affected by men who are conscious 
of increasing corpulency. He carried a cane hooked over 
his forearm; in one hand a large white handkerchief, and 
in the other a broad-brimmed hat. He thrust the former 
gracefully in his breast, laid the latter on the desk wher« 
Mr- Dumphy was seated, and taking an unoffered chair 


News of a Domestic Character, 285 

himself, coolly rested his elbow on his cane in an altitude 
of easy expectancy. 

“ Say you’ve got important business ? ” said Dumphy. 
‘‘Hope it is, sir—hope it is! Then out with it. Can't 
afford to waste time any more here than at the Bank. 
Come ! What is it ? ” 

Not in the least affected by Mr. Dumphy’s manner, 
whose habitual brusqueness was intensified to rudeness, 
Colonel Starbottle drew out his handkerchief, blew his nose, 
carefully returned apparently only about two inches of the 
cambric to his breast, leaving the rest displayed like a ruffled 
shirt, and began with an airy gesture of his fat white hand. 

“ I was here two hours ago, sir, when you were at the— 
er—festive board. I said to the boy, ‘ Don’t interrupt your 
master. A gentleman worshipping at the shrine of Venus 
and Bacchus and attended by the muses and immortals, 
don’t want to be interrupted.’ Ged, sir, I knew a man in 
Louisiana—Hank Pinckney—shot his boy—a little yellow 
boy worth a thousand dollars—for interrupting him at a 
poker party—and no ladies present! And the boy only 
coming in to say that the gin house was in flimies. Perhaps 
you’ll say an extreme case. Know a dozen such. So 
I said, ‘ Don’t interrupt him, but when the ladies have 
risen, and Beauty, sir, no longer dazzles and—er—gleams, 
and the table round no longer echoes the—er—light jest, 
then spot him ! And over the deserted board, with—er— 
jocial glass between us, your master and I will have our 
little confab.’” 

He rose, and before the astonished Dumphy could inter¬ 
fere, crossed over to a table where a decanter of whisky 
and a carafe of water stood, and fil’ing a glass half-full of 
liquor, reseated himself and turned it off with an easy yet 
dignified inclination towards his host. 

For once only Mr. Dumphy regretted the absence of 


286 Gabriel Conroy. 

dignity in his own manner. It was quite evident that his 
usual brusqueness was utterly ineffective here, and he 
quickly recognised in the Colonel the representative of a 
class of men well known in California, from whom any 
positive rudeness would have provoked a demand for satis¬ 
faction. It was not a class of men that Mr. Dumphy had 
been in the habit of dealing with, and he sat filled with 
impotent rage, but wise enough to restrain its verbal expres¬ 
sion, and thankful that none of his late guests were present 
to witness his discomfiture. Only one good effect was due ' 
to his visitor. Mr. Dumphy through baffled indignation 
and shame had become sober. 

“ No, sir,” continued Colonel Starbottle, setting his glass 
upon his knee, and audibly smacking his large lips. “ No, 
sir, I waited in the—er—ante-chamber until I saw you part 
with your guests—until you bade—er—adieu to a certain 
fair nymph—Ged, sir, I like your taste, and I call myself a 
judge of fine women—^ Blank it all,^ I said to myself, ‘ Blank 
it all, Star, you ain^t goin’ to pop out upon a man just as 
he’s ministering to Beauty and putting a shawl upon a pair 
of alabaster shoulders like that! ’ Ha ! ha ! Ged, sir, I 
remembered myself that in ’ 43 in Washington at a party 
at Tom Benton’s I was in just such a position, sir. ‘ Are 
you never going to get that cloak on. Star ? ’ she says to 
me—the most beautiful creature, the acknowledged belle of 
that whole winter—’ 43, sir—as a gentleman yourself you’ll 
understand why I don’t particularise—‘ If I had my way, 
madam,’ I said, ‘I never would !’ I did, blank me. Bui 
you’re not drinking, Mr. Dumphy, eh ? A thimbleful, sir, 
to our better acquaintance.” 

Not daring to trust himself to speak, Mr. Dumphy 
shook his head somewhat impatiently, and Colonel Star- 
bottle rose. As he did so it seemed as if his shoulders had 
suddenly become broader and his chest distended until hia 


News of a Domestic Character, 287 

iiandkercliief and white waistcoat protruded through the 
breast of his buttoned coat like a bursting grain of “ pop 
corn.” He advanced slowly and with deliberate dignity to 
the side of Dumphy. 

“If I have intruded upon your privacy, Mr. Dumphy,” 
he said, with a stately wave of his white hand, “if, as I 
surmise, from your disinclination, sir, to call it by no 
othei name, to exchange the ordinary convivial courtesies 
common between gentlemen, sir,—you are disposed to 
resent any reminiscences of mine as reflecting upon the 
character of the young lady, sir, whom I had the pleasure 
to see in your company—if such be the case, sir, Ged !—I 
am ready to retire now, sir, and to give you to-morrow, or 
at any time, the satisfaction which no gentleman ever 
refuses another, and which Culpepper Starbottle has never 
been known to deny. My card, sir, you have already; my 
address, sir, is St. Charles Hotel, where I and my friend, 
Mr. Dumphy, will be ready to receive you.” 

“ Look here,” said Mr. Dumphy, in surly but sincere 
alarm, “ I don’t drink because I’ve been drinking. No 
offence, Mr. Starbottle. I was only waiting for you to 
open what you had on your mind in the way of business, 
to order up a bottle of Cliquot to enable us to better digest 
it. Take your seat. Colonel. Bring champagne and two 
glasses.” He rose, and under pretence of going to the 
sideboard, added in a lower tone to the servant who 
entered, “ Stay within call, and in about ten minutes bring 
me some important message from the Bank—you hear? 
A glass of wine with you, Colonel. Happy to make your 
icquaintance ! Here we go ! ” 

The Colonel uttered a slight cough as if to clear away 
his momentary severity, bowed with gracious dignity, 
touched the glass of his host, drew out his handkerchief, 
wiped his mouth, and seated himself once more. 


288 


Gabriel Conroy. 

“ If my object,” he began, with a wave of dignified 
depreciation, “were simply one of ordinary business, I 
should have sought you, sir, in the busy m^rt, and not 
among your Lares and Penates, nor in the blazing lights of 
the festive hall. I should have sought you at that temple 
which report and common rumour says that you, sir, as 
one of the favoured sons of Fortune, have erected to hei 
worship. In my intercourse with the gifted John C. 
Calhoun I never sought him, sir, in the gladiatorial arena 
of the Senate, but rather with the social glass in the 
privacy of his own domicile. Ged, sir, in my profession, 
we recognise some quality in our relations even when pro¬ 
fessional with gentlemen that keep us from approaching 
them like a Yankee pedlar with goods to sell! ” 

“ What’s your profession ? ” asked Mr. Dumphy. 

“ Until elected by the citizens of Siskiyou to represent 
them in the legislative councils I practised at the bar. 
Since then I have been open occasionally to retainers in 
difficult and delicate cases. In the various intrigues that 
arise in politics, in the more complicated relations of the 
two sexes—in, I may say, the two great passions of man¬ 
kind, Ambition and Love, my services have, I believe, 
been considered of value. It has been my office, sir, to 
help the steed of vaulting ambition—er—er—over the 
fence, and to dry the—er—tearful yet glowing cheek of 
Beauty. But for the necessity of honour and secrecy in 
my profession, sir, I could give you the names of some ot 
the most elegant women, and some of the first—the very 
first men in the land as the clients of Culpepper 
Starbottle.” 

“Very sorry,” began Mr. Dumphy, “but if you’re 
expecting to put me among your list of clients, I ”- 

Without taking the least notice of Dumphy’s half 
returned sneer. Colonel Starbottle interrupted him coolly. 


News of a Domestic Chai^acter, 289 

** Ged, sir !—it’s out of the question, I’m retained on the 
other side.” 

The sneer instantly faded from Dumphy’s face, and a 
look of genuine surprise took its place. 

“ What do you mean ?” he said curtly. 

Colonel Starbottle drew his chair beside Dumphy, and 
leaning familiarly over his desk took Mr. Dumphy’s own 
penholder and persuasively emphasised the points of his 
speech upon Mr. Dumphy’s arm with the blunt end. “Sir, 
when I say retained by the other side, it doesn’t keep me 
from doing the honourable thing with the defendant—from 
recognising a gentleman and trying to settle this matter as 
between gentlemen.” 

“ But what’s all this about ? Who is your plaintiff? ” 
roared Dumphy, forgetting himself in his rage. 

“ Ged, sir—it’s a woman—of course. Don’t think I’m 
accusing you of any political ambition. Ha ! ha ! No, sir. 
You’re like me ! it’s a woman—lovely woman—I saw it at 
a glance! Gentlemen like you and me don’t go through 
to fifty years without giving some thought to these dear 
little creatures. Sir, I despise a .man who did. It’s the 
weakness of a great man, sir.” 

Mr. Dumphy pushed his chair back with the grim 
deliberation of a man who had at last measured the 
strength of his adversary and was satisfied to risk an 
encounter. 

“Look here. Colonel Starbottle, I don’t know or care 
who your plaintiff is. I don’t know or care how she may 
have been deceived or wronged or disappointed or bam¬ 
boozled, or what is the particular game that’s up now. 
But you’re a man of the world, you say, and as a man of 
the world and a man of sense, you know that no one in my 
position ever puts himself in any woman’s power. I can’t 
afford it! I don’t pretend to be better than other men, but 

VOL. IV. T 


290 Gabriel Lonroy. 

I ain't a fool. That’s the difference between me and youi 
clients !” 

“ Yes—but, my boy, that is the difference ! Don’t 
you see ? In other cases the woman’s a beautiful woman, 
a charming creature, you know. Ged, sometimes she’s as 
proper and pious as a nun, but then the relations, you see, 
ain’t legal! But hang it all, my boy, this is—YOUR 
WIFE!” 

Mr. Dumphy, with colourless cheeks, tried to laugh a 
reckless scornful laugh. “ My wife is dead ! ” . 

‘‘A mistake—Ged, sir!—a most miserable mistake. 
Understand me. I don’t say that she hadn’t ought to be! 
Ged, sir, from the look that that little blue-eyed hussy gave 
you an hour ago—there ain’t much use of another woman 
around, but the fact is that she is living. You thought she 
was dead, and left her up there in the snow. She goes so 
far as to say—you know how these women talk, Dumphy; 
Ged, sir, they’ll say anything when they get down on a man 
—she says it ain’t your fault if she wasn’t dead ! Eh ? 
Sho?” 

“ A message, sir, business of the Bank, very important,” 
said Dumphy’s servant, opening the door. 

“ Get out! ” said Dumphy, with an oath. 

“ But, sir, they told me, sir ”- 

Get out! will you ? ” roared Dumphy. 

The door closed on his astonished face. ** It’s all—a— 
mistake,” said Dumphy, when he had gone. “ They died 
of starvation—all of them—while I was away hunting help. 
I’ve read the accounts.” 

Colonel Starbottle slowly drew from some vast moral 
elevation in his breast pocket a well-worn paper. It 
proved when open to be a faded, blackened, and be- 
thumbed document in Spanish. “ Here is tlie report ol 
the Commander of the Presidio who sent out the expedi 


An Unexpected Visitor, 291 

tion. You read Spanish? Well. The bodies of all the 
other women were identified except your wife’s. Hang it, 
my boy, don’t you see why she was excepted ? She wasn’t 
there.” 

The Colonel darted a fat forefinger at his host and then 
drew back, and settled his purpled chin and wattled 
cheeks conclusively in his enormous shirt collar. Mr. 
Dumphy sank back in his chair at the contact as if the 
finger of Fate had touched him. 


CHAPTER V. 

MRS. CONROY HAS AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 

The hot weather had not been confined to San Francisco. 
San Pablo Bay had glittered, and the yellow currents of 
the San Joaquin and Sacramento glowed sullenly with a 
dull sluggish lava-like flow. No breeze stirred the wild 
oats that drooped on the western slope of the Contra Costa 
hills; the smoke of burning woods on the eastern hillsides 
rose silently and steadily; the great wheat fields of the 
intermediate valleys clothed themselves humbly in dust and 
ashes. A column of red dust accompanied the Wingdam 
and One Horse Gulch stage-coach, a pillar of fire by day 
as well as by night, and made the fainting passengers look 
longingly toward the snow-patched Sierras beyond. It 
was hot in California; few had ever seen the like, and 
those who had were looked upon as enemies of their race. 
A rashly scientific man of Murphy’s Camp who had a 
theory of his own, and upon that had prophesied a con¬ 
tinuance of the probable recurrence of the earthquake 
shock, concluded he had better leave the settlement until 
the principles of meteorology were bettet recognised and 
established. 


292 


Gabriel Conroy. 

It was hot m One Horse Gulch—in the oven-like Gulch, 
on the burning sands and scorching bars of the river. It 
was hot even on Conroy’s Hill, among the calm shadows 
of the dark-green pines—on the deep verandahs of the 
Conroy cottage ornk. Perhaps this was the reason why 
Mrs. Gabriel Conroy, early that morning after the depar¬ 
ture of her husband for the mill, had evaded the varnished 
and white-leaded heats of her own house and sought the 
more fragrant odours of the sedate pines beyond the hill¬ 
top. I fear, however, that something was due to a myste¬ 
rious note which had reached her clandestinely the evening 
before, and which, seated on the trunk of a prostrate pine, 
she was now reperusing. 

I should like to sketch her as she sat there. A broad- 
brimmed straw hat covered her head, that although squared 
a little too much at the temples for shapeliness, was still 
made comely by the good taste with which—aided by a 
crimping-iron—she had treated her fine-spun electrical 
blonde hair. The heat had brought out a delicate dewy 
colour in her usually pale face, and had heightened the 
intense nervous brightness of her vivid grey eyes. From 
the same cause, probably, her lips were slightly parted, so 
that the rigidity that usually characterised their finely 
chiselled outlines was lost. She looked healthier; the 
long flowing skirts which she affected, after the fashion of 
most petite women, were gathered at a waist scarcely as 
sylph-like and unsubstantial as that which Gabriel first 
clasped after the accident in the fateful canon. She 
seemed a trifle more languid—more careful of her personal 
comfort, and spent some time in adjusting herself to the 
inequalities of her uncouth seat with a certain pouting 
peevishness of manner that was quite as new to her char¬ 
acter as it was certainly feminine and charming. She held 
the open note in her thin, narrow, white-tipped fingers, 


An Unexpected Visitor, 293 

and glanced over it again with a slight smile. It read as 
follows :— 

“ At ten o’clock I shall wait for you at the hill near the Big Pine i 
You shall give me an interview if you know yourself well. I say 
beware 1 I am strong, for I am injured 1 —VICTOR.” 

Mrs. Conroy folded the note again, still smiling, and 
placed it carefully in her pocket. Then she sat patient, 
her hands clasped lightly between her knees, the parasol 
open at her feet—the very picture of a fond, confiding 
tryst. Then she suddenly drew her feet under her, side¬ 
ways, with a quick, nervous motion, and examined the 
ground carefully with sincere distrust of all artful lurking 
vermin who lie in wait for helpless womanhood. Then 
she looked at her watch. 

It was five minutes past the hour. There was no sound 
in the dim, slumbrous wood, but the far-off sleepy caw of 
a rook. A squirrel ran impulsively halfway down the bark 
of the nearest pine, and catching sight of her tilted parasol, 
suddenly flattened himself against the bark, with out¬ 
stretched limbs, a picture of abject terror. A bounding 
hare came upon it suddenly and had a palpitation of the 
heart that he thought he really never should get over. 
And then there was a slow crackling in the underbrush as 
of a masculine tread, and Mrs. Conroy, picking up her 
terrible parasol, shaded the cold fires of her grey eyes with 
ft and sat calm and expectant. 

A figure came slowly and listlessly up the hill. When 
within a dozen yards of her, she saw it was not Victor. 
But when it approached nearer she suddenly started to her 
eet with pallid cheeks and an exclamation upon her lips. 
It was the Spanish translator of Pacific Street. She would 
have flown, but on the instant he turned and recognised 
her with a cry, a start, and a passion equal to her own 


294 Gabriel Convey. 

For a moment they stood glaring at each other breathlcsi 
but silent! 

“ Devarges ! ” said Mrs. Conroy, in a voice that was 
scarcely audible. “ Good God ! ” 

The stranger uttered a bitter laugh. Yes ! Devarges! 
—the man who ran away with you—Devarges the traitor ! 
Devarges the betrayer of your husband. Look at me! 
You know me—Henry Devarges I Your husband’s 
brother!—your old accomplice—your lover—your dupe • ” 

“ Hush,” she said, imploringly glancing around through 
the dim woods, “ for God’s sake, hush ! ” 

“ And who are you,” he went on, without heeding her, 
“ which of the Mesdames Devarges is it now ? Or have 
you taken the name of the young sprig of an officer for 
whom you deserted me and maybe in turn married ? Or 
did he refuse you even that excuse for your perfidy ? Or 
is it the wife and accomplice of this feeble-minded Conroy ? 
What name shall I call you? Tell me quick I Oh, I have 
much to say, but I wish to be polite, madame j tell me to 
whom I am to speak ! ” 

Despite the evident reality of his passion and fury there 
was something so unreal and grotesque in his appearance— 
in his antique foppery, in his dyed hair, in his false teeth, 
in his padded coat, in his thin strapped legs, that this 
relentless woman cowered before him in very shame, not 
of her crime but of her accomplice ! “ Hush,” she said, 

'‘call me your friend; I am always your friend, Henry. 
Call me anything, but let me go from here. For God’s sake, 
do you hear? Not so loud! Another time and another 
place I will listen,” and she drew slowly back, until, scarce 
knowing what he did, she had led him away from the placfe 
of rendezvous toward the ruined cabin. Here she felt that 
«he was at least safe from the interruption of Victor. “ How 
jame you here ? How did you find out what had become 


An Unexpected Visitor, 295 

of me ? Where have you been these long years ?she asked 
hastily. 

Within the last few moments she had regained partially 
the strange power that she had always exerted over all men 
except Gabriel Conroy. The stranger hesitated, and then 
answered in a voice that had more of hopelessness than 
bitterness in its quality— 

“ I came here six years ago, a broken, ruined, and dis¬ 
graced man. I had no ambition but to hide myself from 
all who had known me, from that brother whose wife I had 
stolen, and whose home I had broken up—from you—you, 
Julie ! you and your last lover—from the recollection of 
your double treachery! ” He had raised his voice here, 
but was checked by the unflinching eye and cautionary 
gesture of the woman before him. “ When you abandoned 
me in St. Louis, I had no choice but death or a second 
exile. I could not return to Switzerland, I could not live 
in the sickening shadow of my crime and its bitter punish¬ 
ment. I came here. My education, my knowledge of the 
language stood me in good stead. I might have been a 
rich man, I might have been an influential one, but I only 
used my opportunities for the bare necessaries of life and 
the means to forget my trouble in dissipation. I became 
a drudge by day, a gambler by night. I was always a 
gentleman. Men thought me crazy, an enthusiast, but they 
learned to respect me. Traitor as I was in a larger trust, 
no one doubtedT my honour or dared to question my 
integrity. But bah ! what is this to you ? You ! ” 

He would have turned from her again in very bitterness, 
but in the act he caught her eye, and saw in it if not 
sympathy, at least a certain critical admiration, that again 
brought him to her feet. For despicable as this woman was, 
she was pleased at this pride in the man she had betrayed, 
was gratified at the sentiment that lifted him above his dyed 


296 Gabriel Conroy, 

hair and his pitiable foppery, and felt a certain honourable 
satisfaction in the fact that, even after the lapse of years, 
he had proved true to her own intuitions of him. 

‘■I had been growing out of my despair, Julie,” he went 
on, sadly; “ I was, or believed I was, forgetting my fault, 
forgetting even you^ when there came to me the news of 
my brother’s death—by starvation. Listen to me, Julie. 
One day there came to me for translation a document, 
revealing the dreadful death of him—your husband, my 
brother—do you hear ?—by starvation ! Driven from his 
home by shame, he had desperately sought to hide himself 
as I had—accepted the hardship of emigration—he, a 
gentleman and a man of letters—with the boors and rabble 
of the plains, had shared their low trials and their vulgar 
pains, and died among them, unknown and unrecorded.” 

“ He died as he had lived,” said Mrs. Conroy, passion¬ 
ately, “ a traitor and a hypocrite; he died following the 
fortunes of his paramour, an uneducated, vulgar rustic, to 
whom, dying, he willed a fortune—this girl—Grace Conroy. 
Thank God, I have the record ! Hush ! what’s that ? ” 

Whatever it was—a falling bough or the passing of some 
small animal in the underbush—it was past now. A dead 
silence enwrapped the two solitary actors ; they might have 
been the first man and the first woman, so encompassed 
were they by Nature and solitude. 

“No,” she went on, hurriedly, in a lower tone, “it was 
the same old story—the story of that girl at Basle—the 
story of deceit and treachery which brought us first together, 
which made you, Henry, my friend, which turned our 
sympathies into a more dangerous passion. You have 
suffered. Ah, well, so have I. We are equal now.” 

Henry Devarges looked speechlessly upon his com 
panion. Her voice trembled, there were tears in her eyes, 
that had replaced the burning light of womanly indignation. 


An Unexpected Visitor. 297 

He had come there knowing her to have been doubly 
treacherous to her husband and himself. She had not 
denied it. He had come there to tax her with an infamous 
imposture, but had found himself within the last minute 
glowing with sympathetic condemnation of his own brother, 
and ready to accept the yet unoffered and perfectly explic¬ 
able theory of that imposture. More than that, he began 
to feel that his own wrongs were slight in comparison with 
the injuries received by this superior woman. The woman 
who endeavours to justify herself to her jealous lover, always 
has a powerful ally in his own self-love, and Devarges was 
quite willing to believe that even if he had lost her love, he 
had never at least been deceived. And the answer to the 
morality of this imposture was before him. Here was she 
married to the surviving brother of the girl she had person¬ 
ated. Had he—had Dr. Devarges ever exhibited as noble 
trust, as perfect appreciation of her nature and sufferings ? 
Had they not thrown away the priceless pearl of this 
woman's love through ignorance and selfishness ? You and 
I, my dear sir, who are not in love with this most repre¬ 
hensible creature, will be quick to see the imperfect logic 
of Henry Devarges, but when a man constitutes himself 
accuser, judge, and jury of the woman he loves, he is very 
apt to believe he is giving a verdict when he is only enter¬ 
ing a nolle prosequi. It is probable that Mrs. Conroy had 
noticed this weakness in her companion, even with her 
preoccupied fears of the inopportune appearance of Victor, 
whom she felt she could have accounted for much better 
in his absence. Victor was an impulsive person, and there 
are times when this quality, generally adored by a self- 
restrained sex, is apt to be confounding. 

“ Why did you come here to see me ? ” asked Mrs. 
Conroy, with a dangerous smile. “ Only to abuse me ? 

** There is another grant in existence for the same land 


298 Gabriel Conroy. 

that you claim as Grace Conroy or Mrs. Conroy,” returned 
Devarges, with masculine bluntness, ^‘a grant given prior 
to that made to my brother Paul. A suspicion that some 
imposture has been practised is entertained by the party 
holding the grant, and I have been requested to get at the 
facts.” 

Mrs. Conro/s grey eyes lightened. “And how were 
these suspicions aroused ? ” 

“ By an anonymous letter.” 

“ And y^u have seen it ? ” 

“Yes; both it and the handwriting in portions of the 
grant are identical.” 

“ And you know the hand ? ” 

“I do; it is that of a man now here, an old Californian— 
Victor Ramirez! ” 

He fixed his eyes upon her; unabashed she turned her 
own clear glance on his, and asked, with a dazzling smile— 

“ But does not your client know that, whether this grant 
is a forgery or not, my husband’s title is good ? ” 

“Yes; but the sympathies of my client, as you call her^ 
are interested in the orphan girl Grace.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mrs. Conroy, with the faintest possible 
sigh, “your client, for whom you have travelled—how 
many miles ?—is a woman.” 

Half-pleased, but half-embarrassed, Devarges said “Yes.” 

“ I understand,” said Mrs. Conroy slowly. “ A young 
woman, perhaps a good, a pretty one ! And you have said, 
* I will prove this Mrs. Conroy an impostor,’ and you are 
here. Well, I do not blame you. You are a maa It is 
well perhaps it is so. 

“But, Julie, hear me!” interrupted the alarmed Devarges. 

“No morel” said Mrs. Conroy, rising, and waving her 
thin white hand, “ I do not blame you. I could expect— 
I deseive—no more! Go back to your client, sir, tell her 


9 


Gabriel Discards his Home and Wealth, 299 

that you have seen Julie Devarges, the impostor. Tell her 
to go and press her claim, and that you will assist her. 
Finish the work that the anonymous letter-writer has be¬ 
gun, and earn your absolution for your crime and my folly. 
Get your reward—you deserve it—but tell her to thank 
God for having raised up to her better friends than Julie 
Devarges ever possessed in the heyday of her beauty. Go! 
Farewell! No; let me go, Henry Devarges, I am going 
to my husband. He at least has known how to forgive 
and protect a friendless and erring woman.” 

Before the astonished man could recover his senses, 
elusive as a sunbeam, she had slipped through his fingers 
and was gone. For a moment only he followed the flash 
of her white skirt through the dark aisles of the forest, and 
then the pillared trees, crowding in upon each other, hid 
her from view. 

Perhaps it was well, for a moment later Victor Ramirez, 
flushed, wild-eyed, dishevelled, and panting, stumbled 
blindly upon the trail, and blundered into Devarges’ pre¬ 
sence. The two men eyed each other in silence. 

“ A hot day for a walk! ” said Devarges, with an ill- 
concealed sneer. 

“ Vengeance of God 1 you are right, it is,” returned 
Victor. And you ? ” 

^ Oh, I have been fighting flies. Good-day 1 ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

GAERIEL DISCARDS HIS HOME AND WEALTH. 

1 AM sorry to say that Mrs. Conroy’s expression as she fled 
was not entirely consistent with the grieved and heart¬ 
broken manner with which she had just closed the inter- 
i’iew with Henry Devarges. Something of a smile lurked 


300 


» 

Gabriel Conroy, 

about the corners of her thin lips as she tripped up the 
steps of her house, and stood panting a little with the 
exertion in the shadow of the porch. But here she suddenly 
found herself becoming quite faint, and entering the appar¬ 
ently empty house, passed at once to her boudoir, and 
threw herself exhaustedly on the lounge with a certain 
peevish discontent at her physical weakness. No one had 
seen her enter; the Chinese servants were congregated in 
the distant wash-house. Her housekeeper had taken advan¬ 
tage of her absence to ride to the town. The unusual heat 
was felt to be an apology for any domestic negligence. 

She was very thoughtful. The shock she had felt on 
first meeting Devarges was past; she was satisfied she still 
retained an influence over him sufficient to keep him her 
ally against Ramirez, whom she felt she now had reason to 
fear. Hitherto his jealousy had only shown itself in 
vapouring and bravado; she had been willing to believe 
him capable of offering her physical violence in his insane 
fury, and had not feared it, but this deliberately planned 
> treachery made her tremble. She would see Devarges 
again ; she would recite the wrongs she had received from 
the dead brother and husband, and in Henry’s weak attempt 
to still his own conscience with that excuse, she could trust 
to him to keep Ramirez in check, and withhold the exposure 
until she and Gabriel could get away. Once out of the 
country, she could laugh at them both; once away, she 
could devote herself to win the love of Gabriel, without 
which she had begun to feel her life and schemes had been 
in vain. She would hurry their departure at once. Since 
the report had spread affecting the value of the mine, 
Gabriel, believing it true, had vaguely felt it his duty to» 
stand by his doubtful claim and accept its fortunes, and 
had delayed his preparations. She would make him believe 
that it was Dumphy’s wish that he should go at once; she 


/ 


Gabriel Discards his Home and Wealth. 301 

would make Dumphy write him to that effect. She smiled 
as she thought of the power she had lately achieved over 
the fears of this financial magnate. She would do all this, 
but for her physical weakness. She ground her teeth as 
she thought of it: that at such a time she should be—and 
yet a moment later a sudden fancy flashed across her mind, 
and she closed her eyes that she might take in its delusive 
sweetness more completely. It might be that it wanted 
only this to touch his heart—some men were so strange— 
and if it were, O God !—she stopped. 

What was that noise ? The house had been very quiet, 
so still that she had heard a woodpecker tapping on its 
roof. But now she heard distinctly the slow, heavy tread 
of a man in one of the upper chambers, which had been 
used as a lumber-room. Mrs. Conroy had none of the 
nervous apprehension of her sex in regard to probable 
ghosts or burglars—she had too much of a man’s practical 
pre-occupation for that, yet she listened curiously. It came 
again. There was no mistaking it now. It was the tread 
of the man with whom her thoughts had been busy—her 
husband. 

What was he doing here? In the few months of their 
married life he had never been home before at this hour. 
The lumber-room contained among other things the disjecta 
membra of his old mining life and experience. He may 
have wanted something. There was an old bag which she 
remembered he said contained some of his mother’s dresses. 
Yet it was so odd that he should go there now. Any other 
time but this. A terrible superstitious dread—a dread 
that any other time she would have laughed to scorn, began 
to creep over her. Hark ! he was moving. She stopped 
breathing. 

T^ e tread recommenced. It passed into the upper hall, 
and came slowly down the stairs, each step recording itself 


302 


Gabriel Conroy. 

in her heart-beats. It reached the lower hall and seemed 
to hesitate; then it came slowly along toward her door, 
and again hesitated. 

Another moment of suspense, and she felt she would 
have screamed. And then the door slowly opened, and 
Gabriel stood before her. 

In one swift, intuitive, hopeless look she read her fatfc. 
He knew all! And yet his eyes, except that they bore less 
of the usual perplexity and embarrassment with which they 
had habitually met hers, though grave and sad, had neither 
indignation nor anger. He had changed his clothes to a 
rough miner’s blouse and trousers, and carried in one hand 
a miner’s pack, and in the other a pick and shovel. He 
laid them down slowly and deliberately, and seeing her 
eyes fixed upon them with a nervous intensity, began apolo¬ 
getically— 

“ They contains, ma’am, on’y a blanket and a few duds 
ez I alius used to carry with me. I’ll open it ef you say so. 
But you know me, ma’am, well enough to allow that I’d 
take nothin’ outer this yer house ez I didn’t bring inter it.” 

“ You are going away,” she said, in a voice that was not 
audible to herself, but seemed to vaguely echo in her 
mental consciousness. 

“ I be. Ef ye don’t know why, ma’am, I reckon ez 
you’ll hear it from the same vyce ez I did. It’s on’y the 
squar thing to say afore I go, ez it ain’t my fault nor hiz’n, 
I was on the hill this mornin’ in the ole cabin.” 

It seemed as if he had told her this before, so old and 
self-evident the fact appeared. 

“ i was sayin’ I woz on the hill, when I heerd vyces, and 
lookin’ out I seed you with a stranger. From wot ye know 
o’ me and my ways, ma’am, it ain’t like me to listen to thei 
wot ain’t allowed for me to hear. And ye might hev stood 
thar ontel now ef I hadn’t seed a chap dodgin’ round bo 


Gabriel Discards his Home and Wealth, 303 

hind the trees, spyin* and lisdnin*. When I seed thet man 
I knowed him to be a pore Mexican, whose legs Td tended 
yer in the Gulch mor’n a year ago. I went up to him, and 
when he seed me heM hev run. But I laid my hand onto 
him—and—he stayed !” 

There was something so unconsciously large and fine in 
the slight gesture of this giant’s hand as he emphasised his 
speech, that even through her swiftly rising pride Mrs. 
Conroy was awed and thrilled by it. But the next moment 
she found herself saying—whether aloud or not she couid 
not tell—“ If he had loved me, he would have killed him 
then and there.” 

“ Wot thet man sed to me—bein’ flustered and savage¬ 
like, along o’ bein’ choked hard to keep him from singin’ 
out and breakin’ in upon you and thet entire stranger—ain’t 
fur me to say. Knowin’ him longer than I do, I reckon 
you suspect ’bout wot it was. That it ez the truth I read 
it in your face now, ma’am, ez I reckon I might hev read it 
off and on in many ways and vari’s styles sens we’ve been 
yer together, on’y I waz thet weak and ondecided yer.” 

He raised his hand to his forehead here, and with his 
broad palm appeared to wipe away the trouble and per¬ 
plexity that had overshadowed it. He then drew a paper 
from his breast. 

“ I’ve drawed up a little paper yer ez I’ll hand over to 
Lawyer Maxwell, makin’ over back agin all ez I once hed 
o’ you and all ez I ever expect to hev. For I don’t agree 
with tnat Mexican thet wot was gi’n to Grace belongs to 
me. I allow ez she kin settle thet herself, ef she ever 
comes, and ef I know thet chile, ma’am, she ain’t goin’ tech 
it with a two-foot pole. We’ve alius bin simple folks, 
ma’am—though it ain’t the squar thing to take me for a 
sample—and oneddicated and common, but thar ain’t a 
Conroy ez lived ez was ever pinted for money, or ez ever 


s 


304 Gabriel Conroy, 

took more outer the kompany’s wages than his grub and 
his clothes.” 

It was the first time that he had ever asserted himself in 
her presence, and even then he did it half apologetically, 
yet with an unconscious dignity in his manner that became 
him well. He reached down as he spoke and took up his 
pick and his bundle, and turned to go. 

“There is nothing then that you are leaving behind 
you ? ” she asked. 

He raised his eyes squarely to hers. 

“ No,” he said, simply, “ nothing.” 

Oh, if she could have only spoken! Oh, had she but 
dared to tell him that he had left behind that which he 
could not take away, that which the mere instincts of his 
manhood would have stirred him to tenderness and mercy, 
that which would have appealed to him through its very 
helplessness and youth. But she dared not. That elo¬ 
quence which an hour before had been ready enough to 
sway the feelings of the man to whom she had been faithless 
and did not love, failed her now. In the grasp of her first 
and only hopeless passion this arch-hypocrite had lost even 
the tact of the simplest of her sex. She did not even 
assume an indifference ! She said nothing; when she 
raised her eyes again he was gone. 

She was wrong. At the front door he stopped, hesitated 
a moment, and then returned slowly and diffidently to the 
room. Her heart beat rapidly, and then was still 

“Ye asked just now,” he said, falteringly, “ef thar was 
anything ez I was leavin’ behind. Thar is—ef ye’ll overlook 
my sayin’ it. When you and me allowed to leave fur furrin 
parts, I reckoned to leave thet housekeeper behind, and un- 
beknowed to ye I gin her some money and a charge. I told 
her thet if ever thet dear chile—Sister Grace—came here, 
thet she should take her in and do by her ez I would, and 


f 


What Passed under the Pine, 


let me know. Et may be a heap to ask, but ef it 'tain’t too 
much—I—I shouldn’t—like—yer—to turn—thet innocent 
insuspectin’ chile away from the house thet she might take to 
be mine. Ye needn’t let on anythin’ thet’s gone—ye needn’t 
tell her what a fool I’ve been, but jest take her in and send 
for me. Lawyer Maxwell will gin ye my address.” 

The sting recalled her benumbed life. She rose with a 
harsh dissonant laugh and said, “ Your wishes shall be ful¬ 
filled—if”—she hesitated a moment—“/am here.” 

But he did not hear the last sentence, and was gone. 


CHAPTER VII. 

WHAT PASSED UNDER THE PINE AND WHAT REMAINED 
THERE. 

Ramirez was not as happy in his revenge as he had antici¬ 
pated. He had, in an instant of impulsive rage, fired his 
mine prematurely, and, as he feared, impotently. Gabriel 
had not visibly sickened, faded, nor fallen blighted under 
the exposure of his wife’s deceit. It was even doubtful, as 
far as Ramirez could judge from his quiet reception of the 
revelation, whether he would even call that wife to account 
for it. Again, Ramirez was unpleasantly conscious that 
this exposure had lost some of its dignity and importance by 
being wrested from him as a confession made under pressure 
or duress. Worse than all, he had lost the opportunity of 
previously threatening Mrs. Conroy with the disclosure, and 
the delicious spectacle of her discomfiture. In point of fact 
his revenge had been limited to the cautious cowardice of 
the anonymous letter-writer, who, stabbing in the dark, 
enjoys neither the contemplation of the agonies of his 
rictim, nor the assertion of his own individual power. 

To this torturing reflection a terrible suspicion of the 

VOL. IV. u 


3 o6 Gabriel Conroy. 

Spanish translator, Perkins, was superadded. Foi Gabriel, 
Ramirez had only that contempt which every lawless lover 
has for the lawful husband of his mistress, while for Perkins 
he had that agonising doubt which every lawless lover has for 
every other man but the husband. In making this ex¬ 
posure had he not precipitated a catastrophe as fatal to 
himself as to the husband ? Might they not both drive this 
woman into the arms of another man ? Ramirez paced the 
little bedroom of the Grand Conroy Hotel, a prey to that 
bastard remorse of all natures like his own,—the overwhelm^ 
ing consciousness of opportunities for villany misspent. 

Come what might he would see her again, and at once. 
He would let her know that he suspected her relations with 
this translator. He would tell her that he had written the 
letter—that he had forged the grant—that- 

A tap at the door recalled him to himself. It opened 
presently to Sal, coy, bashful, and conscious. The evident 
agitation of this young foreigner had to Sal’s mattenof-fact 
comprehension only one origin—a hopeless, consuming 
passion for herself. 

“ Dinner hez bin done gone an hour ago,” said that arch 
virgin, “but I put suthin’ by for ye. Ye was inquirin’ last 
night about them Conroys. I thought I’d tell ye thet Gabril 
hez bin yer askin’ arter Lawyer Maxwell—which he’s off to 
Sacramento—altho’ one o’ Sue Markle’s most intymit friends 
and steddeyist boarders ! ” 

But Mr. Ramirez had no ear for Gabriel now. 

“ Tell to me, Mees Clark,” he said, suddenly turning all 
his teeth on her, with gasping civility, “ where is this 
Senor Perkins, eh ? ” 

“ Thet shiny chap—ez looks like a old turned alpacker 
gownd !” said Sal; “thet man ez I can’t abear,” she con¬ 
tinued, with a delicately maidenly suggestion that Ramirez 
need fear no rivalry from that quarter. “ I don’t mind—and 



What Passed under the Pine. 307 

don’t keer to know. He hezn’t bin yer since mornin’. I 
reckon he’s up somewhar on Conroy’s Hill. All I know ez 
thet he sent a message yer to git ready his volise to put 
aboard the Wingdam stage to-night. Are ye goin’ with 
him ? ” 

“ No,” said Ramirez, curtly. 

“ Axin’ yer parding for the question, but seein’ ez he’d 
got booked for two places, I tho’t ez maybe ye’d got tired 
o’ plain mounting folks and mounting ways, and waz goin’ 
with him,” and Sal threw an arch yet reproachful glance at 
Ramirez. 

“Booked for two seats,” gasped Victor; “ah! for a 
lady ]jerhaps—eh, Mees Clark ? for a lady ? ” 

Sal bridled instantly at what might have seemed a sug¬ 
gestion of impropriety on her part. “A lady—like his 
imperance—indeed I I’d like to know who would demean 
theirselves by goin’ with the like o’ he ! But you’re not 
startin’ out agin without your dinner, and it waitin’ ye in 
the oven ? No ? La ! Mr. Ramirez, ye must be in luv I 
I’ve heerd tell ez it do take away the appetite; not knowin’ 
1^’ my own experense, though it’s little hez passed my lips 
these two days, and only when tempted.” 

But before Sal could complete her diagnosis, Mr. 
Ramirez gasped a few words of hasty excuse, seized his hat 
and hurried from the room. 

Leaving Sal a second time to mourn over the effect of 
her coquettish playfulness upon the sensitive Italian nature, 
Victor Ramirez, toiling through the heat and fiery dust 
shaken from the wheels of incoming teams, once more 
brushed his way up the long ascent of Conroy’s Hill, and 
did not stop until he reached its summit. Here he paused 
to collect his scattered thoughts, to decide upon some plan 
of action, to control the pulse of his beating temples, 
quickened by excitement and the fatigue of the ascent, and 


3o8 Gabriel Conroy. 

to wipe the perspiration from his streaming face. He must 
see her at once; but how and where ? To go boldly to 
her house would be to meet her in the presence of Gabriel, 
and that was no longer an object; besides, if she were with 
this stranger it would not probably be there. By haunting 
this nearest umbrage to the house he would probably inter¬ 
cept them on their way to the Gulch, or overhear any othe? 
conference. By lingering here he would avoid any inter¬ 
ference from Gabriel’s cabin on the right, and yet be able 
to detect the approach of any one from the road. The 
spot that he had chosen was, singularly enough, in earlier 
days, Gabriel’s favourite haunt for the indulgence of his 
noontide contemplation and pipe. A great pine, the 
largest of its fellow^s, towered in a little opening to the 
right, as if it had drawn apart for seclusion, and obeying 
some mysterious attraction, Victor went toward it and 
seated himself on an abutting root at its base. Here a 
singular circumstance occurred, which at first filled him 
with superstitious fear. The handkerchief with which he 
had wiped his face—nay, his very shirt-front itself— 
suddenly appeared as if covered with blood. A moment<^ 
later he saw that the ensanguined hue was only due to the 
dust through which he had plunged, blending with the 
perspiration that on the least exertion still started from 
every pore of his burning skin. 

The sun was slowly sinking. The long shadow of 
Reservoir Ridge fell upon Conroy’s Hill, and seemed to 
cut down the tall pine that a moment before had risen 
redly in the sunlight. The sounds of human labour slowly 
died out of the Gulch below, the far-ofif whistle of teamsters 
in the Wingdam road began to fail. One by one the red 
openings on the wooded hillside opposite went out, as if 
Nature were putting up the shutters for the day. With the 
gathering twilight Ramirez became more intensely alert 


What Passed under the Pine. 309 

and watchful. Treading stealthily around the lone pine 
tree, with shining eyes and gleaming teeth, he might have 
been mistaken for some hesitating animal waiting for that 
boldness which should come with the coming night 
Suddenly he stopped, and leaning forward peered into the 
increasing shadow. Coming up the trail from the town was 
a woman. Even at that distance and by that uncertain 
light, Ramirez recognised the flapping hat and ungainly 
stride. It was Sal—perdition ! Might the devil fly away 
with her! But she turned to the right with the trail that 
wound toward Gabriel’s hut and the cottage beyond, and 
Victor breathed, or rather panted, more freely. And then 
a voice at his very side thrilled him to his smallest fibre, 
and he turned quickly. It was Mrs. Conroy, white, erect, 
and truculent. 

“ What are you doing here ? ” she said, with a sharp, 
quick utterance. 

Hush ! ” said Ramirez, trembling with the passion 
called up by the figure before him. “ Hush ! There is 
one who has just come up the trail.” 

“ What do I care who. hears me now ? You have made 
caution unnecessary,” she responded, sharply. “ All the 
world knows us now ! and so I ask you again, what are 
you doing here ? ” 

He would have approached her nearer, but she drew 
back, twitching her long white skirt behind her with a 
■ ingle quick feminine motion of her hand, as if to save it 
from contamination. 

Victor laughed uneasily. ‘‘You have come to keep 
j our appointment; it is not my fault if I am late.” 

“ I have come here because for the last half-hour I have 
watched you. from my verandah, coursing in and out 
among the trees like a hound as you are ! I have come to 
whip you off my land as I would a hound. But I have 


310 Gabriel Conroy, 

first a word or two to say to you as the man you have 
assumed to be.” * 

Standing there with the sunset glow over her erect, 
graceful figure, in the pink flush of her cheek, in the cold 
fires of her eyes, in all the thousand nameless magnetisms 
of her presence, there was so much of her old power over 
this slave of passion, that the scorn of her words touched 
him only to inflame him, and he would have grovelled at 
her feet could he have touched the thin three fingers that 
she warningly waved at him. 

“ You wrong me, Julie, by the God of Heaven ! I was 
wild, mad, this morning—you understand—for when I 
came to you I found you with another ! I had reason, 
Mother of God ! I had reason for my madness, reason 
enough ; but I came in peace, Julie, I came in peace ! ” 

“ In peace,” returned Mrs. Conroy, scornfully ; “ your 
note was a peaceful one, indeed ! ” 

Ah! but I knew not how else to make you hear me. 
I had news—news you understand, news that might save 
you, for I came from the woman who holds the grant. 
Ah ! you will listen, will you not ? For one moment only, 
Julie, hear me, and I am gone.” 

Mrs. Conroy, with abstracted gaze, leaned against the 
tree. “ Go on,” she said coldly. 

“ Ah ! you will listen then ! ” said Victor, joyfully ; 
“ and when you have listened you shall understand 1 
Well. First I have the fact that the lawyer for this woman 
is the man who deserted the Grace Conroy in the 
mountains—the man who was called Philip Ashley, but 
whose real name is Poinsett.” 

“Who did you say?” said Mrs. Conroy, suddenly stepping 
from the tree, and fixing a pair of cruel eyes on Ramirez. 

“ Arthur Poinsett—an ex-soldier, an officer. Ah, yov 
do not believe—I swear to God it is so 1 ” 




What Passed under the Fine. 311 

“What has this to do with me?” she said scornfully, 
resuming her position beside the pine. “ Go on—or is this 
all ? ” 

“No, but it is much. Look you ! he is the affianced of 
a rich widow in the Southern Country, you understand ? 
No one knows his past. Ah, you begin to comprehend- 
He does not dare to seek out the real Grace Conroy. He 
shall not dare to press the claim of his client. Conse¬ 
quently, he does nothing! ” 

“ Is this all your news ? ” 

“ All!—ah, no. There is one more, but I dare not 
speak it here,” he said, glancing craftily around through 
the slowly darkening wood. 

“Then it must remain untold,” returned Mrs. Conroy, 
coldly; “ for this is our last and only interview.” 

“ But, Julie ! ” 

“Have you done?” she continued, in the same tone. 

Whether her indifference was assumed or not, it was 
effective. Ramirez glanced again quickly around, and 
then said, sulkily, “ Come nearer, and I will tell you. Ah, 
you doubt—you doubt ? Be it so.” But seeing that she 
did not move, he drew toward the tree, and whispered— 
“ Bend here your head—I will whisper it.” 

Mrs. Conroy, evading his outstretched hand, bent her 
head. He whispered a few words in her ear that were 
inaudible a foot from the tree. 

“Did you tell this to him—to Gabriel?” she asked, 
fixing her eyes upon him, yet without change in her frigid 
demeanour. 

“No!—I swear to you, Julie, no! I would not have 
told him anything, but I was wild, crazy. And he was a 
brute, a great bear. He held me fast, here, so ! I could 
not move. It was a forced confession. Yes—Mother of 
God —by force ! ” 


31 2 Gabriel Conroy. 

Luckily for Victor the darkness hid the scorn that 
momentarily flashed in the woman’s eyes at this corrobo¬ 
ration of her husband’s strength and the weakness of the 
man before her. “And is this all that you have to tell 
me ? ” she only said. 

“ All—I swear to you, Julie—all.” 

“ Then listen, Victor Ramirez,” she said, swiftly stepping 
from the tree into the path before him, and facing him with 
a white and rigid face. “ Whatever was your purpose in 
coming here, it has been successful! You have done all 
that you intended, and more I The man whose mind you 
came to poison—the man you wished to turn against me— 
has gone !—has left me—left me never to return !—he 
never loved me ! Your exposure of me was to him a god¬ 
send, for it gave him an excuse for the insults he has 
heaped upon me, for the treachery he has always hidden in 
his bosom!” 

Even in the darkness she could see the self-complacent 
flash of Victor’s teeth, could hear the quick, hurried sound 
of his breath as he bent his head toward her, and knew 
that he was eagerly reaching out his hand for hers. He 
would have caught her gesturing hand and covered it with 
kisses, but that, divining his intention, without flinching 
from her position, she whipped both her hands behind her. 

“ Well—you are satisfied ! You have had your say and 
your way. Now I shall have mine. Do you suppose I 
came here to-night to congratulate you? No I came here 
to tell you that, insulted, outraged, and spurned as I have 
been by my husband, Gabriel Conroy—cast off and 
degraded as I stand here to-night— I love him I Love him 
as I never loved any man before; love him as I never 
shall love any man again ; love him as I hate you 1 Love 
him so that I shall follow him wherever he goes, if I have 
to drag myself after him on my knees. His hatred is more 


What Passed under the Pine, .313 

precious to me than your love. Do you hear me, Victor 
Ramirez ? That is what I came here to tell you. More 
than that—listen ! The secret you have whispered to me 
just now, whether true or false, I shall take to him. I will 
help him to find his sister. I will make him love m.e yet if 
I sacrifice you, everybody, my own life, to do it! Do you 
hear that, Victor Ramirez, you dog!—you Spanish mon¬ 
grel !—you half-breed. Oh, grit your teeth there in the 
darkness—I know you—grit your teeth as you did to-day 
when Gabriel held you squirming under his thumb ! It 
was a fine sight, Victor—worthy of the manly Secretary 
who stole a dying girl’s papers I—worthy of the valiant 
soldier who abandoned his garrison to a Yankee pedlar 
and his mule ! Oh, I know you, sir, and have known you 
fronr the first day I made you my tool—my dupe ! Go on, 
sir, go on—draw your knife, do! I am not afraid, 
cowaid I I shall not scream, I promise you! Come 
on!” 

With /o insane, articulate gasp of rage and shame, he 
sprang toward her with an uplifted knife. But at the same 
instant she saw a hand reach from the darkness and fall 
swiftly upon his shoulder, saw him turn and with an oath 
struggle furiously in the arms of Devarges, and without 
waiting to thank her deliverer, or learn the result of his 
interference, darted by the struggling pair and fled. 

Possessed only by a single idea, she ran swiftly to her 
home. Here she pencilled a few hurried lines, and called 
one of her Chinese servants to her side. 

“Take this. Ah Fe, and give it to Mr. Conroy. You 
will find him at Lawyer Maxwell’s, or if not there he will 
tell you where he has gone. But you must find him. If 
he has left town already, you must follow him. Find him 
within an hour and I’ll double that ”—she placed a gold 
piece in his hand. “ Go at once.” 


314 Gabriel Conroy, 

However limited might have been Ah Fe’s knowledge of 
the English language, there was an eloquence in the 
woman’s manner that needed no translation. He nodded 
his head intelligently, said, ‘‘ Me shabbe you—muchee 
quick,” caused the gold piece and the letter to instantly 
vanish up his sleeve, and started from the house in a brisk 
trot. Nor did he allow any incidental diversion to inter¬ 
fere with the business in hand. The noise of struggling 
in the underbrush on Conroy’s Hill and a cry for help only 
extracted from Ah Fe the response, “You muchee go-to 
hellee—no foolee me! ” as he trotted unconcernedly by. 
In half an hour he had reached Lawyer Maxwell’s office. 
But the news was not favourable. Gabriel had left an 
hour before, they knew not where. Ah Fe hesitated a 
moment, and then ran quickly down the hill to where a 
gang of his fellow-countrymen were working in a ditch at 
the roadside. Ah Fe paused, and uttered in a high recita¬ 
tive a series of the most extraordinary ejaculations, utterly 
unintelligible to the few Americans who chanced to be 
working near. But the effect was magical; in an instant 
pick and shovel were laid aside, and before the astor-jshed 
miners could comprehend it the entire gang of Chinamen 
had dispersed, and in another instant were scattered over 
the several trails leading out of One Horse Gulch, except 
one. 

That one was luckily taken by Ah Fe. In half an hour 
ne came upon the object of his search, settled on a boulder 
by the wayside, smoking his evening pipe. His pick, 
shovel, and pack lay by his side. Ah Fe did not waste 
time in preliminary speech or introduction. He simply 
handed the missive to his master, and instantly turned his 
back upon him and departed. In another half hour every 
Chinaman was back in the ditch, working silently as ii 
nothing had happened. 


What Passed under the Pine. 315 

Gabriel laid aside his pipe and held the letter a moment 
hesitatingly between his finger and thumb. Then opening 
it, he at once recognised the small Italian hand with which 
his wife had kept his accounts and written from his dicta¬ 
tion, and something like a faint feeling of regret overcame 
him as he gazed at it, without taking the meaning of the 
text And then, with the hesitation, repetition, and audible 
utterance of an illiterate person, he slowly read the 
following:— 

“ I was wrong. You have left something behind you—a secret that 
as you value your happiness, you must take with you. If you come to 
Conroy’s Hill within the next two hours you shall know it, for I shall 
not enter that house again, and leave here to-night for ever. I do not 
ask you to come for the sake of your wife, but for the sake of the woman 
she once personated. You will come because you love Grace, not be¬ 
cause you care for ' Julie,” 

There was but one fact that Gabriel clearly grasped in 
this letter. That was, that it referred to some news of 
Grace. That was enough. He put away his pipe, rose, 
shouldered his pack and pick, and deliberately retraced 
his steps. When he reached the town, with the shame¬ 
facedness of a man who had just taken leave of it for ever, 
he avoided the main thoroughfare, but did this so clumsily 
and incautiously, after his simple fashion, that two or three 
of the tunnel-men noticed him ascending the hill by an 
inconvenient and seldom used by-path. He did not stay 
long, however, for in a short time—some said ten, others 
said fifteen minutes—he was seen again, descending rapidly 
and recklessly, and crossing the Gulch disappeared in the 
bushes, at the base of Bald Mountain. 

With the going down of the sun that night, the tempera¬ 
ture fell also, and the fierce, dry, desert heat that had filled 
the land for the past few days, fled away before a Qerce 
wind which rose with the coldly rising moon, that, di^ring 


3 i 6 Gabriel Conroy. 

the rest of the night, rode calmly over the twisting tops of 
writhing pines on Conroy’s Hill, over the rattling windows 
of the town, and over the beaten dust of mountain roads. 
But even with the night the wind passed too, and the sun 
arose the next morning upon a hushed and silent landscape. 
It touched, according to its habit, first the tall top of the 
giant pine on Conroy’s Hill, and then slid softly down its 
shaft until it reached the ground. And there it found 
Victor Ramirez- with a knife thrust through his heart, lying 
deaiU 


B O 6 K VI. 
A DIP. 


CHAPTER 1. 

MR. Hamlin’s recreation continued. 

When Donna Dolores after tLc departure of Mrs. Sepulvida 
missed the figure of Mr. Jack Hamlin from the plain before 
her wimiow, she presumed he had followed that lady and 
would have been surprised to have known that he was at 
that moment within her castle, drinking aguardiente with 
no less a personage than the solemn Don Juan Salvatierra. 
In point of fact, with that easy audacity which distinguished 
him, Jack had penetrated the courtyard, gained the hospi¬ 
tality of Don Juan without even revealing his name and 
profession to that usually ceremonious gentleman, and after 
holding him in delicious fascination for two hours, had 
actually left him lamentably intoxicated, and utterly 
oblivious of the character of his guest. Why Jack did not 
follow up his advantage by seeking an interview with the 
mysterious Senora who had touched him so deeply I cannot 
say, nor could he himself afterwards determine. A sudden 
bashfulness and timidity which he had never before experi¬ 
enced in his relations with the sex, tied his own tongue, 
<rhile Don Juan with the garrulity which inebriety gave to 


3 i 8 Gabriel Conroy» 

his, poured forth the gossip of the Mission and the house* 
hold. It is possible also that a certain vague hopelessness, 
equally novel to Jack, sent him away in lower spirits than 
he came. It is not remarkable that Donna Dolores knew 
nothing of the visit of this guest, until three days afterwards, 
for during that time she was indisposed and did not leave 
her room, but it was remarkable that on learning it she flev 
into a paroxysm of indignation and rage that alarmed Don 
Juan and frightened her attendants. 

“And why was / not told of the presence of this strange 
Americano ? Am I a child, holy St. Anthony! that I am to 
be kept in ignorance of my duty as the hostess of the Blessed 
Trinity, or are you, Don Juan, my duena ? A brave Caballero, 
who, I surmise from your description, is the same that pro¬ 
tected me from insult at Mass last Sunday, and he is not to 
‘kiss my hand?^ Mother of God! And his name—you 
have forgotten ? ” 

In vain Juan protested that the strange caballero had not 
requested an audience, and that a proper maidenly spirit 
would have prevented the Donna from appearing, unsought. 

“ Better that I should have been thought forward—and 
these Americanos are of different habitude, my uncle—than 
that the Blessed Trinity should have been misrepresented 
by the guzzling of aguardiente I ” 

Howbeit, Mr. Hamlin had not found the climate of San 
Antonio conducive to that strict repose that his physician 
had recommended, and left it the next day with an acces¬ 
sion of feverish energy that was new to him. He had idled 
away three days of excessive heat at Sacramento, and op. 
the fourth had flown to the mountains and found himselt 
on the morning of the first cool day at Wingdam. 

“Anybody here I know?” he demanded of his faithful 
henchman, as Pete brought in his clotfies, freshly brushed 
for the morning toilette. 


Mr. Hamlins Recreation Continued. 319 

“ No, sah ! ” 

“ Nor want to, eh ? ” continued the cynical Jack, leisurely 
getting out of bed. 

Pete reflected. “Dere is two o’ dese yar Yeastern 
tourists—dem folks as is goin’ round inspectin’ de country 
—down in de parlour. Jess come over from de Big Trees. 
I reckon dey’s some o’ de same party—dem Frisco chaps 
—Mass Dumphy and de odders haz been unloadin’ to. 
Dey’s mighty green, and de boys along de road has been 
fillin’ ’em up. It’s jess so much water on de dried apples 
dat Pete Dumphy’s been shovin’ into ’em.” 

Jack smiled grimly. “I reckon you needn’t bring up 
my breakfast, Pete, I’ll go down.” 

The party thus obscurely referred to by Pete, were Mr. 
and Mrs. Raynor, who had been “doing” the Big Trees, 
under the intelligent guidance of a San Francisco editor 
who had been deputised by Mr. Dumphy to represent 
Californian hospitality. They were exceedingly surprised 
during breakfast by the entrance of a pale, handsome, 
languid gentleman, accurately dressed, whose infinite neat¬ 
ness shamed their own bedraggled appearance, and who, 
accompanied by his own servant, advanced and quietly 
took a seat opposite the tourists and their guide. Mrs. 
Raynor at once became conscious of some negligence in 
her toilette, and after a moment’s embarrassment excused 
herself and withdrew. Mr. Raynor, impressed with the 
appearance of the stranger, telegraphed his curiosity by 
elbowing the editor, who, however, for some reason best 
known to himself, failed to respond. Possibly he recog¬ 
nised the presence of the notorious Mr. Jack Hamlin in 
the dark-eyed stranger, and may have had ample reasons 
for refraining frqpi voicing the popular reputation of that 
gentleman before his face, or possibly he may have been 
inattentive. Howbeit, after Mr. Hamlin’s entrance he pre^ 


320 Gabriel Conroy. 

termitted the hymn of California praise and became reticent 
and absorbed in his morning paper. Mr. Hamlin waited 
for the lady to retire, and then, calmly ignoring the presence 
of any other individual, languidly drew from his pocket a 
revolver and bowie-knife, and placing them in an easy 
habitual manner on either side of his plate, glanced care¬ 
lessly over the table, and then called Pete to his side. 

** Tell them,” said Jack, quietly, “ that I want some 
potatoes; ask them what they mean by putting those little 
things on the table. Tell them to be quick. Is your rifle 
loaded ? ” 

“Yes, sah,” said Pete, promptly, without relaxing a 
muscle of his serious ebony face. 

“ Well—take it along with you.” 

But here the curiosity of Mr. Raynor, who had been just 
commenting on the really enormous size of the potatoes, 
got the best of his prudence. Failing to make his com¬ 
panion respond to his repeated elbowings, he leaned over 
the table toward the languid stranger. “ Excuse me, sir,” 
he said, politely, “but did I understand you to say that 
you thought these potatoes small —that there are really 
larger ones to be had ? ” 

“ It’s the first time,” returned Jack gravely, “ that I ever 
was insulted by having a whole potato brought to me. I 
didn’t know it was possible before. Perhaps in this part 
of the country the vegetables are poor. I’m a stranger to 
this section. I take it you are too. But because I am a 
stranger I don’t see why I should be imposed upon.” 

“ Ah, I see,” said the mystified Raynor, “ but if I might 
ask another question—you’ll excuse me if I’m impertinent 
—I noticed that you just now advised your servant to take 
his gun into the kitchen with him ; surely ”- 

“ Pete,” interrupted Mr. Hamlin, languidly, “ is a good 
nigger. I shouldn’t like to lose him ! Perhaps you’re righj 



Mr. Hamlifis Recreation Continued. 321 

—maybe 1 am a little over-cautious. But when a man has 
lost two servants by gunshot wounds inside of three months, 
it makes him careful.” ' 

The perfect unconcern of the speaker, the reticence of 
his companion, and the dead silence of the room in which 
this extraordinary speech was uttered, filled the measure of 
Mr. Raynor’s astonishment. 

“ Bless my soul! this is most extraordinary. I have seen 
nothing of this,” he said, appealing in dumb show to his 
companion. 

Mr. Hamlin followed the direction of his eyes. ‘‘ Your 
friend is a Californian and knows what we think of any 
man who lies, and how most men resent such an imputation, 
and I reckon he’ll endorse me ! ” 

The editor muttered a hasty assent that seemed to cover 
Mr. Hamlin’s various propositions, and then hurriedly with¬ 
drew, abandoning his charge to Mr. Hamlin. What advan¬ 
tage Jack took of this situation, what extravagant accounts 
he gravely offered of the vegetation in Lower California, of 
the resources of the country, of the reckless disregard of 
life and property, do not strictly belong to the record of 
this veracious chronicle. Nowithstanding all this, Mr. 
Raynor found Mr. Hamlin an exceedingly fascinating com¬ 
panion, and later, when the editor had rejoined them, and 
Mr. Hamlin proceeded to beg that gentleman to warn Mr. 
Raynor against gambling as the one seductive, besetting 
sin of California, alleging that it had been the ruin of both 
the editor and himself, the tourist was so struck with the 
frankness and high moral principle of his new acquaintance 
as to insist upon his making one of their party, an invita¬ 
tion that Mr. Hamlin might have accepted but for the inter¬ 
vention of a singular occurrence. 

During the conversation he had been curiously impressed 
by the appearance of a stranger who had entered and 

VOL. IV. X 


322 


Gabriel Conroy, 

modestly and diffidently taken a seat near the door. To 
Mr. Hamlin this modesty and diffidence appeared so curi¬ 
ously at variance with his superb physique, and the excep¬ 
tional strength and power shown in every muscle of his 
body, that with his usual audacity he felt inclined to go 
forward and inquire “ what was his little game ? ” That he 
was lying in wait to be “picked up”—the reader must 
really excuse me if I continue to borrow Mr. Hamlin’s ex¬ 
pressive vernacular—that his diffidence and shyness was a 
deceit and intended to entrap the unwary, he felt satisfied, 
and was proportion ably thrilled with a sense of admiration 
for him. That a rational human being who held su,ch a 
hand should be content with a small ante^ without “ raising 
the other players,”—but I beg the fastidious reader’s for¬ 
giveness. 

He was dressed in the ordinary miner’s garb of the 
Southern mines, perhaps a little more cleanly than the 
average miner by reason of his taste, certainly more pictu¬ 
resque by reason of his statuesque shapeliness. He wore 
a pair of white duck trousers, a jumper or loose blouse of 
the same material, with a low-folded sailor’s collar and 
sailor-knotted neckerchief, which displayed, with an uncon¬ 
sciousness quite characteristic of the man, the full, muscular 
column of his sunburnt throat, except where it was hidden 
by a full, tawny beard. His long, sandy curls fell naturally 
and equally on either side of the centre of his low, broad 
forehead. His fair complexion, although greatly tanned 
by exposure, seemed to have faded lately as by sickness 
or great mental distress, a theory that had some confirma¬ 
tion in the fact that he ate but little. His eyes were 
downcast, or, when raised, were so shy as to avoid critical 
examination. Nevertheless his mere superficial exterior 
was so striking as to attract the admiration of others besides 
Mr. Hamlin; to excite the enthusiastic attention of Mr 


Mr, Hamlins Recreation Contimied. 323 

Raynor, and to enable the editor to offer him as a fair 
type of the mining population. Embarrassed at last by a 
scrutiny that asserted itself even through his habitual 
unconsciousness and pre-occupation, the subject of this 
criticism arose and returned to the hotel verandah, where 
his pack and mining implements were lying. Mr. Hamlin, 
who for the last few days had been in a rather exceptional 
mood, for some occult reason which he could not explain, 
felt like respecting the stranger’s reserve, and quietly lounged 
into the billiard-room to wait for the coming of the stage¬ 
coach. As soon as his back was turned the editor took 
occasion to offer Mr. Raynor his own estimate of Mr. 
Hamlin’s character and reputation, to correct his misstate¬ 
ments regarding Californian resources and social habits, 
and to restore Mr. Raynor’s possibly shaken faith in Cali¬ 
fornia as a country especially adapted to the secure invest¬ 
ment of capital. 

“As to the insecurity of life,” said the editor, indignantly, 
“it is as safe here as in New York or Boston. We admit 
that in the early days the country was cursed by too many 
adventurers of the type of this very gambler Hamlin, but 
I will venture to say that you will require no better refuta¬ 
tion of these calumnies than this very miner whom you 
admired. He, sir, is a type of our mining population ; 
strong, manly, honest, unassuming, and perfectly gentle 
and retiring. We are proud, sir, we admit, of such men— 
ch ? Oh, that’s nothing—only the arrival of the up-stage ! ” 

It certainly was something more. A momentarily in¬ 
creasing crowed of breathless men were gathered on the 
verandah before the window and were peering anxiously 
over each other’s head toward a central group, among 
which towered the tall figure of the very miner of whom 
they had been speaking. More than that, there was a 
certain undefined, restless terror in the air, as when the 


324 


Gabriel Co7iroy, 

intense conscious passion or suffering of one or two men 
communicates itself vaguely without speech, sometimes 
even without visible sign to others. And then Yuba Bill, 
the driver of the Wingdam coach, strode out from the 
crowd into the bar-room, drawing from his hands with an 
evident effort his immense buckskin gloves. 

“What’s the row. Bill?” said half-a-dozen voices. 

“Nothin’,’’said Bill, gruffly; “only the Sheriff of Cala¬ 
veras ez kem down with us hez nabbed his man jest in his 
very tracks.” 

“When, Bill?” 

“Right yer—on this very verandy—furst man he 
seed! ” 

“ What for ? ” “ Who ? ” “ What hed he bin doin’ ? ” “Who 
is it?” “What’s up?” persisted the chorus. 

“ Killed a man up at One Horse Gulch, last night,” said 
Bill, grasping the decanter which the attentive bar-keeper 
had, without previous request, placed before him. 

“Who did he kill. Bill?” 

“A little Mexican from ’Frisco by the name o’Ramirez.” 

“What’s the man’s name that killed him—the man that 
you took ? ” 

The voice was Jack Hamlin’s. 

Yuba Bill instantly turned, put down his glass, wiped his 
mouth with his sleeve, and then deliberately held out his 
great hand with an exhaustive grin. “ Bern my skin, ole 
man, if it ain’t you! And how’s things, eh? Yer lookin’ 
a little white in the gills, but peart and sassy, ez usual. 
Heerd you was kinder off colour, down in Sacramento lass 
week. And it’s you, ole fell, and jest in time ! Bar-keep— 
hist that pizen over to Jack. Here to ye agin, ole man 
But I’m glad to see ye 1 ” 

The crowd hung breathless over the two men—awe¬ 
struck and respectful. It was a meeting of the gods— 


Mr, Hamlin takes a Hand, 325 

Jack Hamlin and Yuba Bill. None dared speak. Hamlin 
broke the silence at last, and put down his glass. 

“ What,” he asked, lazily, yet with a slight colour on his 
cheek, “ did you say was the name of the chap that fetched 
that little Mexican ? ” 

“ Gabriel Conroy,” said Bill. 


CHAPTER IL 

MR. HAMLIN TAKES A HAND. 

The capture had been effected quietly. To the evident 
astonishment of his captor, Gabriel had offered no resis¬ 
tance, but had yielded himself up with a certain composed 
willingness, as if it were only the preliminary step to the 
quicker solution of a problem that was sure to be solved. 
It was observed, however, that he showed a degree of 
caution that was new to him—asking to see the warrant, 
the particulars of the discovery of the body, and utterly 
withholding that voluble explanation or apology which all 
who knew his character confidently expected him to give, 
whether guilty or innocent—a caution which, accepted by 
them as simply the low cunning of the criminal, told 
against him. He submitted quietly to a search that, 
however, disclosed no concealed weapon or anything of 
import. But when a pair of handcuffs were shown him, 
he changed colour, and those that were nearest to him saw 
that he breathed hurriedly, and hesitated in the first words 
of some protest that rose to his lips. The sheriff, a man of 
known intrepidity, who had the rapid and clear intuition 
that comes with courageous self-possession, noticed it also, 
and quietly put the handcuffs back in his pocket. 

‘‘ I reckon there’s no use for ’em here ; ef you're willin’ 
to take the risks, 1 am.” 


326 Gabriel Conroy. 

The eyes of the two men met, and Gabriel thanked him. 
In that look he recognised and accepted the fact that on a 
motion to escape he would be instantly killed. 

They were to return with the next stage, and in the 
interval Gabriel was placed in an upper room, and securely 
guarded. Here, falling into his old apologetic manner, he 
asked permission to smoke a pipe, which was at once 
granted by his good-humoured guard, and then threw him¬ 
self at full length upon the bed. The rising wind rattled 
the windows noisily, and entering tossed the smoke-wreaths 
that rose from his pipe in fitful waves about the room. 
The guard, who was much more embarrassed than his 
charge, was relieved of an ineffectual attempt to carry on 
a conversation suitable to the occasion by Gabriel’s simple 
directness— 

“ You needn^t put yourself out to pass the time o’ day 
with me,” he said, gently, “ that bein’ extry to your reg’lar 
work. Ef you hev any friends ez you’d like to talk to in 
your own line, invite ’em in, and don’t mind me.” 

But here the guard’s embarrassment was further relieved 
by the entrance of Joe Hall, the sheriff. 

“ There’s a gentleman here to speak with you,” he said 
to Gabriel, “he can stay until we’re ready to go.” Turn¬ 
ing to the guard, he added, “ You can take a chair outside 
the door in the hall. It’s all right, it’s the prisoner’s 
counsel.” 

At the word Gabriel looked up. Following the sheriff. 
Lawyer Maxwell entered the room. He approached 
Gabriel, and extended with grave cordiality a hand that 
had apparently wiped from his mouth the last trace of 
mirthfulness at the door. 

“ I did not expect to see you again so soon, Gabriel, but 
as quickly as the news reached me, and I heard that out 
friend Hall had a warrant for you, I started after him. I 


Mi\ Hamlin takes a Hand. 327 

prould have got here before him, but my horse gave out” 
He paused, and looked steadily at Gabriel. “ Well! ” 

Gabriel looked at him in return, but did not speak. 

“ I supposed you would need professional aid,” he went 
on, with a slight hesitation, “ perhaps mine —knowing that 
I was aware of some of the circumstances that preceded 
this affair.” 

“Wot circumstances?” asked Gabriel, with the sudden 
look of cunning that had before prejudiced his captors. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Gabriel,” said Maxwell, rising with 
a gesture of impatience, “ don’t let us repeat the blunder 
of our first interview. This is a serious matter; may be 
very serious to you. Think a moment. Yesterday you 
sought my professional aid to deed to your wife all your 
property, telling me that you were going away never to 
return to One Horse Gulch. I do not ask you now why 
you did it. I only want you to reflect that I am just now 
the only man who knows that circumstance—a circumstance 
that I can tell you as a lawyer is somewhat important in 
the light of the crime that you are now charged with.” 

Maxwell waited for Gabriel to speak, wnping away as he 
waited the usual smile that lingered around his lips. But 
Gabriel said nothing. 

“ Gabriel Conroy,” said Lawyer Maxwell, suddenly drop¬ 
ping into the vernacular of One Horse Gulch, “ are you a 
fool ? ” 

“ Thet’s so,” said Gabriel, with the simplicity of a man 
admitting a self-evident proposition. “ Thet’s so ; I reckon 
I are.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” said Maxwell, again swiftly turn¬ 
ing upon him, “ if you were ! ” He stopped, as if ashamed 
of his abruptness, and said more quietly and persuasively, 

* Come, Gabriel, if you won’t confess to me^ I suppose that 
^ must to you. Six months ago I thought you an impostor. 


328 Gabriel Conroy, 

Six months ago the woman who is now your wife charged 
you with being an impostor; with assuming a name and 
right that did not belong to you ; in plain English, said 
that you had set yourself up as Gabriel Conroy, and that 
she, who was Grace Conroy, the sister of the real Gabriel, 
knew that you lied. She substantiated all this by proofs; 
hang it,” continued Maxwell, appealing in dumb show to 
the walls, “ there isn’t a lawyer living as wouldn’t have said 
it was a good case, and been ready to push it in any court. 
Under these circumstances I sought you, and you re¬ 
member how. You know the result of that interview. I 
can tell you now that if there ever was a man who palpably 
confessed to guilt when he was innocent, you were that 
man. Well, after your conduct there was explained by 
Oily, without, however, damaging the original evidence 
against you, or prejudicing her rights, this woman came to 
me and said that she had discovered that you were the 
man who had saved her life at the risk of your own, and 
that for the present she could not, in delicacy, push her 
claim. When afterwards she told me that this gratitude 
had—well, ripened into something more serious, and that 
she had engaged herself to marry you, and so condone your 
offence, why, it was woman-like and natural, and I sus¬ 
pected nothing. I believed her story—believed she had a 
case. Yes, sir; the last six months I have looked upon 
you as the creature of that woman’s foolish magnanimity. 
I could see that she was soft on you, and believed that you 
had fooled her. I did, hang me! There, if you confess 
to being a fool, I do to having been an infernal sight bigger 
one.” 

He stopped, erased the mirthful past with his hand, and 
went on— 

“ I began to suspect something when you came to me 
yesterday with this story of your going away, and this dif»- 


Mr. Hamlin takes a Hand. 


329 


posal of your property. When I heard of the murder of 
this stranger—one of your wife’s witnesses to her claim— 
near your house, your own flight, and the sudden disap¬ 
pearance of your wife, my suspicions were strengthened. 
And when I read this note from your wife, delivered to you 
last night by one of her servants, and picked up early this 
morning near the body, my suspicions were confirmed.” 

As he finished he took from his pocket a folded paper 
and handed it to Gabriel. He received it mechanically, 
and opened it. It was his wife’s note of the preceding 
night. He took out his knife, still holding the letter, and 
with its blade began stirring the bowl of his pipe. Then 
after a pause, he asked cautiously— 

And how did come by this yer?” 

“It was found by Sal Clark, brought to Mrs. Markle, 
and given to me. Its existence is known only to three 
people, and they are your friends.” 

There was another pause, in which Gabriel deliberately 
stirred the contents of his pipe. Mr. Maxwell examined 
him curiously. 

“ Well,” he said, at last, “ what is your defence ? ” 

Gabriel sat up on the bed and rapped the bowl of his pipe 
against the bedpost to loosen some refractory encrustation. 

“ Wot,” he asked, gravely, “ would be your idee of a 
good defence ? Axin ye ez a lawyer having experin’s in 
them things, and reck’nin’ to pay ez high ez eny man fo’ the 
same, wot would you call a good defence?’’ And he 
gravely laid himself down again in an attitude of respectful 
attention. 

“ We hope to prove,” said Maxwell, really smiling, “ that 
when you left your house and came to my office the mur¬ 
dered man was alive and at his hotel; that he went over to 
the hill long before you did j that 7 ^// did not return until 
the evening —after the ir^fder was committed, as the ‘ secret * 


330 Gabriel Conroy, 

mentioned in your wife’s mysterious note evidently shows. 
That for some reason or other it was her design to place 
you in a suspicious attitude. That the note shows that she 
refers to some fact of which she was cognisant and not 
yourself.” 

“Suthin’ that she knowed, and I didn’t get to hear,” 
translated Gabriel, quietly. 

“ Exactly ! Now you see the importance of that note.** 

Gabriel did not immediately reply, but slowly lifted his 
huge frame from the bed, walked to the open window, still 
holding the paper in his hands, deliberately tore it into the 
minutest shreds before the lawyer could interfere, and then 
threw it from the window. 

“ Thet paper don’t ’mount ter beans, no how! ” he said, 
quietly but explanatively as he returned to the bed. 

It was Lawyer Maxwell’s turn to become dumb. In his 
astonished abstraction he forgot to wipe his mouth, and 
gazed at Gabriel with his nervous smile as if his client had 
just perpetrated a practical joke of the first magnitude. 

“ Ef it’s the same to you. I’ll just gin ye my idee of a 
de-fence,” said Gabriel, apologetically, relighting his pipe, 
“allowin’ o’ course that you knows best, and askin’ no 
deduckshun from your charges for advice. Well, you jess 
stands up afore the jedge, and you slings ’em a yarn suthin’ 
like this: ‘Yer’s me, for instans,’ you sez, sez you, ‘ ez 
gambols—gambols very deep—^jess fights the tiger, wharever 
and whenever found, the same bein’ onbeknownst ter folks 
gin’rally, and spechil te my wife, ez was July. Yer’s me 
been gambolin’ desprit with this yer man, Victyor Ramyirez, 
and gets lifted bad ! and we hez, so to speak, a differculty 
about some pints in the game. I allows one thing, he allows 
another, and this yer man gives me the lie and I stabs him ! * 
Stop^hole your bosses! ” interjected Gabriel, suddenly, 
“ thet looks bad, don’t it ? he bein’ a small man, a little 


Mr. Hamlin takes a Hand. 331 

feller 'bout your size. No! Well, this yer’s the way we 
puts it up: ‘Seving men— seving —friends o’ his, comes at 
me, permiskis like, one down, and nex’ comes on, and we 
hez it mighty lively thar fur an hour, until me, bein' in a 
tight place, hez to use a knife and cuts this yer man bad !' 
Thar, that’s ’bout the thing I Now ez to my runnin’ away, 
you sez, sez you, ez how I disremembers owin’ to the 
’citement that I hez a ’pintment in Sacramento the very 
nex’ day, and waltzes down yer to keep it, in a hurry. Ef 
they want to know whar July ez, you sez she gits wild on 
my not cornin’ home, and starts that very night arter me. 
Thar, thet’s ’bout my idee—puttin’ it o’ course in your own 
shape, and slingin’ in them bits o’ po’try and garbage, and 
kinder sassin’ the plaintiff’s counsel, ezyou know goes down 
afore a jedge and jury.” 

Maxwell rose hopelessly,—“Then, if I understand you, 
you intend to admit ”- 

“Thet I done it? In course !” replied Gabriel; “but,” 
he added, with a cunning twinkle in his eye, “justifybly— 
justifyble homyside, ye mind !—bein’ in fear o’ my life from 
seving men. In course,” he added, hurriedly, “I can’t 
identify them seving strangers in the dark, so thar’s no harm 
or suspicion goin’ to be done enny o’ the boys in the Gulch.” 

Maxwell walked gravely to the window, and stood looking 
out without speaking. Suddenly he turned upon Gabriel 
with a brighter face and more earnest manner. “ Where’s 
Oily?” 

Gabriel’s face fell. He hesitated a moment. “ I was on 
my way to the school in Sacramento whar she iz.” 

‘ You must send for her—I must see her at once 1 ” 

Gabriel laid his powerful hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. 
'‘She izn’t—that chile—to knows anythin’ o' this. You' 
hear ? ” he said, in a voice that began in tones of deprecation, 
tnd ended in a note of stern warning. 



232 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ How are you to keep it from her ? ” said Maxwell, as 
determinedly. “ In less than twenty-four hours every news¬ 
paper in the state will have it—with their own version and 
comments. No; you must see her. She must hear it first 
from your own lips.” 

But—I—can’t—see—her just now,” said Gabriel, with 
a voice that for the first time during their interview faltered 
in its accents. 

“ Nor need you,” responded the lawyer, quickly. “ Trust 
that to me. / will see her, and you shall afterwards. You 
need not fear I will prejudice your case. Give me the 
address ! Quick ! ” he added, as the sound of footsteps 
and voices approaching the room, came from the hall, 
Gabriel did as he requested. “Now one word,” he con¬ 
tinued hurriedly, as the footsteps halted at the door. 

“ Yes,” said Gabriel. 

“ As you value your life and Oily’s happiness, hold youi 
tongue.” 

Gabriel nodded with cunning comprehensipn. The door 
opened to Mr. Jack Hamlin, diabolically mischievous, self- 
confident, and audacious! With a familiar nod to Maxwell 
he stepped quickly before Gabriel and extended his hand. 
Simply, yet conscious of obeying some vague magnetic in¬ 
fluence, Gabriel reached out his own hand and took Jack’s 
white, nervous fingers in his own calm, massive grasp. 

“ Glad to see you, pard ! ” said that gentleman, showing 
his white teeth and reaching up to clap his disengaged 
hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “ Glad to see you, old boy,— 
even if you have cut in and taken a job out of my hands 
that I was rather lyin’ by to do myself. Sooner or later 
I’d have fetched that Mexican—if you hadn’t dropped into 
my seat and taken up my hand. Oh, it’s all right, Mack 1” 
he said, intercepting the quick look of caution that MaxweV 
darted at his client, “don’t do that. We’re all friends here 


Mr, Hamlin takes a Hand. 333 

If you want me to testify, I’ll take my oath that there 
hasn’t been a day this six months that that infernal hound, 
Ramirez, wasn’t jest pantin’ to be planted in his tracks! 
I can hardly believe I ain’t done it myself.” He stopped, 
partly to enjoy the palpable uneasiness of Maxwell, and 
perhaps in some admiration of Gabriel’s physique. 

Maxwell quickly seized this point of vantage. “You 
can do your friend here a very great service,” he said to 
Jack, lowering his voice as he spoke. 

Jack laughed. “No, Mack, it won’t do! They wouldn’t 
believe me ! There ain’t judge or jury you could play that 
on!” 

“You don’t understand me,” said Maxwell, laughing a 
little awkwardly. “I didn’t mean that. Jack. This man 
was going to Sacramento to see his little sister”- 

“Go on,” said Jack, with much gravity; “of course he 
was. I know that. ‘ Dear brother, dear brother, come 
home with me now!’ Certainly. So’m I. Goin’ to see 
an innocent little thing ’bout seventeen years old, blue 
eyes and curly hair! Always go there once a week. Says 

he must come ! Says she’ll ”-he stopped in the full 

tide of his irony, for, looking up, he caught a glimpse of 
Gabriel’s simple, troubled face and sadly reproachful eyes. 
“ Look here,” said Jack, turning savagely on Maxwell, 
“ what are you talking about anyway ? ” 

“ I mean what I say,” returned Maxwell, quickly. “ He 
was going to see his sister—a mere child. Of course he 
can’t go now. But he must see her—if she can be brought 
to him. Can you— will you do it ? ” 

Jack cast another swift glance at Gabriel. “ Count me 
bj,” he said, promptly; “when shall I go?” 

“ Now—at once.” 

“All right. Where shall I fetch her to?” 

** One Horse Gulch.” 



334 Gabriel Co 7 iroy. 

“The game’s made,” said Jack, sententiously. “She’ll 
be there by sundown to-morrow.” He was off like a flash, 
but as swiftly returned, and called Maxwell to the door. 
“ Look here,” he said, in a whisper, “ p’r’aps it would be 
as well if the sheriff didn’t know I was his friend,” he went 
on, indicating Gabriel with a toss of his head and a wink 
of his black eye, “because, you see, Joe Hall and I ain’t 
friends. We had a little difficulty, and some shootin’ and 
foolishness down at Marysville last year. Joe’s a good, 
square man, but he ain’t above prejudice, and it might go 
against our man.” 

Maxwell nodded, and Jack once more darted off. 

But his colour was so high, and his exaltation so exces¬ 
sive, that when he reached his room his faithful Pete looked 
at him in undisguised alarm. “ Bress us—it tain’t no 
whisky. Mars Jack, arter all de doctors tole you?” he said, 
clasping his hands in dismay. 

The bare suggestion was enough for Jack in his present 
hilarious humour. He instantly hiccuped, lapsed wildly 
over against Pete with artfully simulated alcoholic weak¬ 
ness, tumbled him on the floor, and grasping his white, 
woolly head, waved over it a boot-jack, and frantically 
demanded “another bottle.” Then he laughed; as suddenly 
got up with the greatest gravity and a complete change in 
his demeanour, and wanted to know, severely, what he, 
Pete, meant by lying there on the floor in a state of beastly 
intoxication ? 

“Bress me ! Mars Jack, but ye did frighten me. I jiss 
Iillowed dem tourists downstairs had been gettin’' ye tight” 

“You did—you -degraded old ruffian! If you’d been 
leading Volney’s ‘Ruins,’ or reflectin’ on some of those 
moral maxims that I’m just wastin’ my time and health 
unloading to you, instead of making me the subject ol 
your inebriated reveries, you wouldn’t get picked up so 


Mr. Hamlin takes a Hand. 335 

often. Pack my valise, and chuck it into some horse and 
matter whose. Be quick.” 

“ Is we gwine to Sacramento, Mars Jack?” 

“ We ? No, sir. Tm going—alone ! What I’m doing 
now, sir, is only the result of calm reflection—of lying 
awake nights taking points and jest spottin’ the whole 
situation. And I’m convinced, Peter, that I can stay with 
you no longer. You’ve been hackin’ the keen edge of my 
finer feelin’s; playin’ it very low down on my moral and 
religious nature, generally ringin’ in a cold deck on my 
spiritual condition for the last five years. You’ve jest cut 
up thet rough with my higher emotions thet there ain’t 
enough left to chip in on .a ten-cent ante. Five years 
ago,” continued Jack, coolly, brushing his curls before the 
glass, “ I fell into your hands a guileless, simple youth, in 
the first flush of manhood, knowin’ no points, easily picked 
up on my sensibilities, and travellin’, so to speak, on my 
shape! And where am I now? Echo answers ‘ where ? ’ 
and passes for a euchre ! No, Peter, I leave you to-night. 
Wretched misleader of youth, gummy old man with the 
strawberry eyebrows, farewell ! ” 

Evidently this style of exordium was no novelty to Pete, 
for without apparently paying the least attention to it, he 
went on surlily packing his master’s valise. When he had 
finished he looked up at Mr. Hamlin, who was humming, 
in a heart-broken way, “ Yes^ we must part^' varied by 
occasional glances of exaggerated reproach at Pete, and 
said, as he shouldered the valise— 

“ Dis yer ain’t no woman foolishness. Mars Jack, like 
down at dat yar Mission ? ” 

“Your suggestion, Peter,” retimed Jack, with dignity, 
emanates from a moral sentiment debased by Love 
Feasts and Camp Meetings, and an intellect weakened by 
Rum and Gum and the contact of Lager Beer Jerkers. It 


336 Gabriel Conroy. 

is worthy of a short-card sharp and a keno flopper, which 1 
have, I regret to say, long suspected you to be. Farewell! 
You will stay here until I come back. If I don’t come 
back by the day after to-morrow, come to One Horse 
Gulch. Pay the bill, and don’t knock down for yourself 
more than seventy-five per cent. Remember I am getting 
old and feeble. You are yet young, with a brilliant future 
before you. Git.” 

He tossed a handful of gold on the bed, adjusted his 
hat carefully over his curls, and strode from the room. 
In the lower hall he stopped long enough to take aside 
Mr. Raynor, and with an appearance of the greatest con¬ 
scientiousness, to correct an error of two feet in the 
measurements he had given him that morning of an enor¬ 
mous pine tree in whose prostrate trunk he, Mr. Hamlin, 
had once found a peaceful, happy tribe of one hundred 
Indians living. Then lifting his hat with marked polite¬ 
ness to Mrs. Raynor, and totally ignoring the presence of 
Mr. Raynor’s mentor and companion, he leaped lightly 
into the buggy and drove away. 

“An entertaining fellow,” said Mr. Raynor, glancing 
after the cloud of dust that flew from the untarrying wheels 
of Mr. Hamlin’s chariot. 

“And so gentlemanly,” smiled Mrs. Raynor. 

But the journalistic conservator of the public morals of 
California, in and for the city and county of San Francisco, 
looked grave, and deprecated even that feeble praise of the 
departed. “ His class are a curse to the country. They 
hold the law in contempt; they retard by the example of 
their extravagance the virtues of economy and thrift; they 
are consumers and not producers ; they bring the fair fame 
of this land into question by those who foolishly take them 
for a type of the people.” 

“ But, dear me,” said Mrs. Raynor, pouting, “ where 


Mr. Hamlin takes a Hand. 


337 

your gamblers and bad men are so fascinating, and your 
honest miners are so dreadfully murderous, and kill people, 
and then sit down to breakfast with you as if nothing had 
happened, what are you going to do ? ” 

The journalist did not immediately, reply. In the course 
of some eloquent remarks, as unexceptionable in morality 
as in diction, which I regret I have not space to reproduce 
here, he, however, intimated that there was still an Un¬ 
fettered Press, which ** scintillated ” and “ shone ” and 
“ lashed ” and “ stung ” and “ exposed ” and ‘‘ tore away 
the veil,” and became at various times a Palladium and a 
Watchtower, and did and was a great many other remark¬ 
able things peculiar to an Unfettered Press in a pioneer 
community, when untrammelled by the enervating con¬ 
ditions of an effete civilisation. 

“And what have they done with the murderer?” asked 
Mr. Raynor, repressing a slight yawn. 

“Taken him back to One Horse Gulch half an hour 
ago. I reckon he'd as lief stayed here,” said a bystander. 
“ From the way things are pintin', it looks as if it might be 
putty lively for him up thar ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Raynor, curiously. 

** Well, two or three of them old Vigilantes from Angel's 
passed yer a minit ago with their rifles, goin’ up that way,” 
leturned the man, lazily. “ Mayn't be nothing in it, but 
it looks mighty like ”- 

“ Like what? ” asked Mr. Raynor, a little nervously. 

“ Lynchin’! ” said the man. 



338 


Gabriel Conroy. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH MR. DUMPHY TAKES POINSETT INTO HIS 
CONFIDENCE. 

The cool weather of the morning following Mr. Dumphy^s 
momentous interview with Colonel Starbottle, contributed 
somewhat to restore the former gentleman’s tranquillity, 
which had been considerably disturbed. He had, moreover, 
a vague recollection of having invited Colonel Starbottle 
to visit him socially, and a nervous dread of meeting this 
man, whose audacity was equal to his own, in the company 
of others. Braced, however, by the tonic of the clear 
exhilarating air, and sustained by the presence of his 
clerks and the respectful homage of his business associates, 
he despatched a note to Arthur Poinsett requesting an 
interview. Punctually at the hour named that gentle¬ 
man presented himself, and was languidly surprised when 
Mr. Dumphy called his clerk and gave positive orders 
that their interview was not to be disturbed and to refuse 
admittance to all other visitors. And then Mr. Dumphy, 
in a peremptory, practical statement which his business 
habits and temperament had brought to a perfection that 
Arthur could not help admiring, presented the details of 
his interview with Colonel Starbottle. “ Now, I want you 
to help me. I have sent to you for that business purpose 
You understand, this is not a matter for the Bank’s regular 
counsel. Now what do you propose ? ” 

First, let me ask you, do you believe your wife is 
living?” 

“ No,” said Dumphy, promptly, “ but of course I don’t 
know,” 


Poinsett taken into Confidence. 339 

Then let me relieve your mind at once, and tell you 
that she is not.” 

“ You know this to be a fact ? ” asked Dumphy. 

“ I do. The body supposed to be Grace Conro/s and 
so identified, was your wife’s. I recognised it at once, 
knowing Grace Conroy to have been absent at the culmina¬ 
tion of the tragedy.” 

“ And why did you not correct the mistake ? ” 

“ That is my business,” said Arthur, haughtily, “ and I 
believe I have been invited here to attend Xo yours. Your 
wife is dead.” 

Then,” said Mr. Dumphy, rising with a brisk business 
air, “if you are willing to testify to that fact, I reckon 
there is nothing more to be done.” 

Arthur did not rise, but sat watching Mr. Dumphy with 
an unmoved face. After a moment Mr. Dumphy sat down 
again, and looked aggressively but nervously at Arthur. 
“ Well,” he said, at last. 

“ Is that all ? ” asked Arthur, quietly ; “ are you willing 
to go on and establish the fact ? ” 

“Don’t know what you mean!” said Dumphy, with an 
attempted frankness which failed signally. 

“One moment, Mr. Dumphy. You are a shrewd busi¬ 
ness man. Now do you suppose the person—whoever he 
or she may be, who has sent Colonel Starbottle to you, 
relies alone upon your inability to legally prove your wife’s 
death ? May they not calculate somewhat on your indis¬ 
position to prove it legally ; on the theory that you’d rather 
not open the case, for instance ? ” 

Mr. Dumphy hesitated a moment and bit his lip. “ Of 
course,” he said, shortly, “ there’d be some talk among my 
enemies about my deserting my wife”- 

“ And child,” suggested Arthur. 

“And child,” repeated Dumphy, savagely, “and nof 


340 Gabriel Conroy. 

coming back again—there’d be suthin’ in the papers anout 
it, unless I paid ’em, but what’s that!—deserting one’s wife 
isn’t such a new thing in California.” 

“ That is so,” said Arthur, with a sarcasm that was none 
the less sincere because he felt its applicability to himself. 

“ But we’re not getting on,” said Mr. Dumphy, im¬ 
patiently. ‘‘ What’s to be done ? That’s what I’ve sent 
to you for.” 

“ Now that we know it is not your wife —we must find out 
who it is that stands back-of Colonel Starbottle. It is 
evidently some one who knows, at least, as much as we do 
of the facts; we are lucky if they know no more. Can you 
think of any one ? Who are the survivors ? Let’s see : you, 
myself, possibly Grace ”- 

“ It couldn’t be Grace Conroy, really alive ! ” interrupted 
Dumphy, hastily. 

“No,” said Arthur, quietly, “you remember was not 
present at the time.” 

“ Gabriel?” 

“ I hardly think so. Besides, he is a friend of yours.” 

“ It couldn’t be ”—Dumphy stopped in his speech, with 
a certain savage alarm in his looks. Arthur noticed it—and 
quietly went on. 

“ Who ‘ couldn’t ’ it be ? ” 

“Nothing—nobody. I was only thinking if Gabriel or 
somebody could have told the story to some designing 
rascal.” 

“ Hardly—in sufficient detail.” 

“ Well,” said Dumphy, with his coarse bark-like laugh, 
“ if I’ve got to pay to see Mrs. Dumphy decently buried, I 
suppose I can rely upon you to see that it’s done without a 
chance of resurrection. Find out who Starbottle’s friend is 
and how much he or she expects. If I’ve got to pay for this 
thing ril do it now, and get the benefit of absolute silence 


Poinsett taken into ConJide 7 ice, 341 

So I’ll leave it in your hands,” and he again rose as if dis¬ 
missing the subject and his visitor, after his habitual business 
manner. 

“Dumphy,” said Arthur, still keeping his own seat, and 
ignoring the significance of Diimphy’s manner. “ There 
are two professions that suffer from a want of frankness in 
the men who seek their services. Those professions are 
Medicine and the Law. I can understand why a man seeks 
to deceive his physician, because he is humbugging him¬ 
self ; but I can’t see why he is not frank to his lawyer! 
You are no exception to the rule. You are now concealing 
from me^ whose aid you have sought, some very important 
reason why you wish to have this whole affair hidden be¬ 
neath the snow of Starvation Camp.” 

‘‘Don’t know what you’re driving at,” said Dumphy. 
But he sat down again. 

“ Well, listen to me, and perhaps I can make my mean¬ 
ing clearer. My acquaintance with the late Dr. Devarges 
began sopie months before we saw you. During our intimacy 
he often spoke to me of his scientific discoveries, in which 
I took some interest, and I remember seeing among his 
papers frequent records and descriptions of localities in the 
oot-hills, which he thought bore the indications of great 
mineral wealth. At that time the Doctor’s theories and 
speculations appeared to me to be visionary, and the records 
of no value. Nevertheless, when we were shut up in Star¬ 
vation Camp, and it seemed doubtful if the Doctor would 
survive his discoveries, at his request I deposited his papers 
and specimens in a cairn at Monument Point. After the 
catastrophe, on my return with the relief party to camp, we 
found that the cairn had been opened by some one and the 
papers and specimens scattered on the snow. We supposed 
this to have been the work of Mrs. Brackett, who, in search 
ot food, had broken the cairn, taken out the specimens, and 


342 Gabriel Conroy, 

died from the effects of the poison with which they had 
been preserved.” 

He paused and looked at Dumphy, who did not speak. 

“ Now,” continued Arthur, “ like all Californians I have 
followed your various successes with interest and wonder. 
I have noticed, with the gratification that all your friends 
experience, the singular good fortune which has distin* 
guished your mining enterprises, and the claims you have 
located. But I have been cognisant of a fact, unknown I 
think to any other of your friends, that nearly all of the 
localities of your successful claims, by a singular coincid¬ 
ence, agree with the memorandums of Dr. Devarges ! ” 

Dumphy sprang to his feet with a savage, brutal laugh. 
“ So,” he shouted, coarsely, ‘‘ that’s the game, is it! So it 
seems Fm lucky in coming to you—no trouble in finding 
this woman now, hey? Well, go on, this is getting interest¬ 
ing ; let’s hear the rest I What are your propositions, what 
if I refuse, hey ? ” 

“ My first proposition,” said Arthur, rising to his'feet with 
a cold wicked light in his grey eyes, “is that you shall in¬ 
stantly take that speech back and beg my pardon ! If you 
refuse, by the living God, I’ll throttle you where you 
stand ! ” 

For one wild moment all the savage animal in Dumphy 
rose, and he instinctively made a step in the direction of 
Poinsett. Arthur did not move. Then Mr. Dumphy’s 
practical caution asserted itself. A physical personal 
struggle with Arthur would bring in witnesses—witnesses 
perhaps of something more than that personal struggle. If 
he were victorious, Arthur, unless killed outright, would 
revenge himself by an exposure. He sank back in his 
chair again. Had Arthur known the low estimate placed 
upon his honour by Mr. Dumphy he would have been less 
complacent in his victory. 


Poinsett taken into Confidence, 34.3 

didn't mean to suspect you^^ said Dumphy at last, 
with a forced smile, “ I hope you’ll excuse me. I know 
you’re my friend. But you’re all wrong about these 
papers; you are, Poinsett, I swear. I know if the fact 
were known to outsiders it would look queer if not 
explained. But whose business is it, anyway, legally, I 
mean ? ” 

“No one’s, unless Devarges has friends or heirs.” 

“ He hadn’t any.” 

“ There’s that wife ! ” 

“ Bah !—she was divorced ! ” 

“Indeed! You told me on our last interview that she 
really was the widow of Devarges.” 

“ Never mind that now,” said Dumphy, impatiently. 
“ Look here 1 You know as well as I do that no matter 
how many discoveries Devarges made, they weren’t worth 
a d—n if he hadn’t done some work on them—improved 
or opened them.” 

“ But that is not the point at issue just now,” said 
Arthur. “ Nobody is going to contest your claim or sue 
you for damages. But they might try to convict you of a 
crime. They might say that breaking into the cairn was 
burglary, and the taking of the papers theft” 

“ But how are they going to prove that ? ” 

“No matter. Listen to me, and don’t let us drift away 
from the main point The question that concerns you is 
this. An impostor sets up a claim to be your wife; you 
and I know she is an impostor, and can prove it She 
knows that, but knows also that in attempting to prove it 
you lay yourself open to some grave charges which she 
doubtless stands ready to make.” 

“ Well, then, the first thing to do is to find out who she 
is, what she knows, and what she wants, eh?” said 
Dumphy. 


344 Gabriel Conroy. 

“ No,” said Arthur, quietly, “ the first thing tp do is to 
prove that your wife is really dead, and to do that you 
must show that Grace Conroy was alive when the body 
purporting to be hers, but which was really your wife’s, 
was discovered. Once establish that fact and you destroy 
the credibility of the Spanish reports, and you need not 
fear any revelation from that source regarding the missing 
papers. And that is the only source from which evidence 
against you can be procured. But when you destroy the 
validity of that report, you of course destroy the credibility 
of all concerned in making it. And as I was concerned in 
making it, of course it won’t do for you to put me on the 
stand.” 

Notwithstanding Dumphy’s disappointment, he could not 
help yielding to a sudden respect for the superior rascal 
who thus cleverly slipped out of responsibility. “But,” 
added Arthur, coolly, “ you’ll have no difficulty in estab¬ 
lishing the fact of Grace’s survival by others.” 

Dumphy thought at once of Ramirez. Here was a man 
who had seen and conversed with Grace when she had, in 
the face of the Spanish Commander, indignantly asserted 
her identity and the falsity of the report. No witness 
could be more satisfactory and convincing. But to make 
use of him he must first take Arthur into his confidence; 
must first expose the conspiracy of Madame Devarges to 
personate Grace, and his own complicity with the trans¬ 
action. He hesitated. Nevertheless, he had been lately 
tortured by a suspicion that the late Madame Devarges 
was in some way connected with the later conspiracy 
against himself, and he longed to avail himself of Arthur’s 
superior sagacity, and after a second reflection he con¬ 
cluded to do it With the same practical conciseness of 
statement that he had used in relating Colonel Starbottle’s 
nterview with himself, he told the story of Madame 


Poinsett taken into Confidence. 345 

Devarges’ brief personation of Grace Conroy, and its 
speedy and felicitous ending in Mrs. Conroy. Arthur 
listened with unmistakable interest and a slowly brighten¬ 
ing colour. When Dumphy had concluded he sat for a 
moment apparently lost in thought. 

“Well?” at last said Dumphy, interrogatively and 
impatiently. 

Arthur started. “ Well,” he said, rising, and replacing 
his hat with the air of a man who had thoroughly exhausted 
his subject, “ your frankness has saved me a world of 
trouble.” 

“How?” said Dumphy. 

“ There is no necessity for looking any further for your 
alleged wife. She exists at present as Mrs. Conroy, alias 
Madame Devarges, alias Grace Conroy. Ramirez is your 
witness. You couldn’t have a more willing one.” 

“ Then my suspicions are correct.” 

“ I don’t know on what you based them. But here is a 
woman who has unlimited power over men, particularly 
over one man, Gabriel!—who alone, of all men but our¬ 
selves, knows the facts regarding your desertion of your 
wife in Starvation Camp, her death, and the placing of Dr. 
Devarges’ private papers by me in the cairn. He knows, 
too, of your knowledge of the existence of the cairn, its 
locality, and contents. He knows this because he was in 
the cabin that night when the Doctor gave me his dying 
injunctions regarding his property—the night that you— 
excuse me, Dumphy, but nothing but frankness will save 
us now—the night that you stood listening at the door and 
frightened Grace wdth your w^olfish face. Don’t speak! 
she told me all about it! Your presence there that night 
gained you the information that you have used so profitably; 
it was your presence that fixed her wavering resolves and 
sent her away with me.” 


346 Gabriel Conroy, 

Both men had become very pale and earnest. Arthur 
moved toward the door. “I will see you to-morrow, when 
I will have matured some plan of defence,” he said, 
abstractedly. “We have”—he used the plural of advocacy 
with a peculiar significance—“ We have a clever woman 
to fight who may be more than our match. Meantime, 
remember that Ramirez is our defence; he is our man, 
Dumphy, hold fast to him as you would to your life. 
Good-day.” 

In another moment he was gone. As the door closed 
upon him a clerk entered hastily from the outer office. 
“You said not to disturb you, sir, and here is an important 
despatch waiting for you from Wingdam.” 

Mr. Dumphy took it mechanically, opened it, read the 
first line, and then said hurriedly, “ Run after that man, 
quick!—Stop! Wait a moment. You need not go! .There, 
that will do ! ” 

The clerk hurriedly withdrew into the outer office. Mr. 
Dumphy went back to his desk again, and once more 
devoured the following lines :— 

“Wingdam, 7th, 6 a.m. —Victor Ramirez murdered last night on 
Conroy’s Hill. Gabriel Conroy arrested. Mrs. Conroy missing. Great 
excitement here; strong feeling against Gabriel. Wait instructions.— 
Fitch.” 

At first Mr. Dumphy only heard as an echo beating in 
his brain, the parting words of Arthur Poinsett, “ Ramirez 
is our defence; hold fast to him as you would your life.” 
And now he was dead—gone; their only witness; killed 
by Gabriel the plotter! What more was wanted to justify 
his worst suspicions? What should they do? He must 
send after Poinsett again; the plan of defence must be 
changed at once; to-morrow might be too late. Stop ! 

One of his accusers in prison charged with a capita.’ 
crime ! The other—the real murderer—for Dumphy madft 


347 


Poinsett taken into Confidence. 

no doubt that Mrs. Conroy was responsible for the deed— 
a fugitive from justice I What need of any witness now? 
The blow that crippled these three conspirators had liberated 
him ! For a moment Mr. Dumphy was actually conscious 
of a paroxysm of gratitude toward some indefinitely Supreme 
Being—a God of special providence—special to himself! 
More than this, there was that vague sentiment, common, 
I fear, to common humanity in such crises, that this Provi¬ 
dence was a tacit endorsement of himself. It was the 
triumph of Virtue (Dumphy) over Vice (Conroy et al.). 

But there would be a trial, publicity, and the possible 
exposure of certain things by a man whom danger might 
make reckless. And could he count upon Mrs. Conroy’s 
absence or neutrality ? He was conscious that her feeling 
for her husband was stronger than he had supposed, and 
she might dare everything to save him. What had aw'oman 
of that kind to do with such weakness ? Why hadn’t she 
managed it so as to kill Gabriel too? There was an evident 
want of practical completeness in this special Providence 
that, as a business man, Mr. Dumphy felt he could have 
regulated. And then he was seized with an idea—a 
damnable inspiration !—and set himself briskly to write. 
I regret to say that despite the popular belief in the 
dramatic character of all villany, Mr. Dumphy at this 
moment presented only the commonplace spectacle of an 
absorbed man of business; no lurid light gleamed from 
his pale blue eyes; no Satanic smile played around the 
corners of his smoothly shaven mouth; no feverish excla¬ 
mation stirred his moist, cool lips. He wrote methodically 
and briskly, without deliberation or undue haste. When 
he had written half-a-dozen letters he folded and sealed 
them, and without summoning his clerk, took them himself 
into the outer office and thence into the large counting- 
room. The news of the murder had evidently got abroad; 


34 ^ '^dbriel Conroy, 

the clerks were congregated together, and the sound of 
eager, interested voices ceased as the great man entered 
and stood among them. 

“Fitch, you and Judson will take the quickest route to 
One Horse Gulch to-night. Don’t waste any time on the 
road or spare any expense. When you get there deliver 
these letters, and take your orders from my correspondents. 
Pick up all the details you can about this affair and let me 
know. What’s your balance at the Gulch, Mr. Peebles ? 
never mind the exact figures ! ” 

“ Larger than usual, sir, some heavy deposits ! ” 

“ Increase your balance then if there should be any d—d 
fools who connect the Bank with this matter.” 

“I suppose,” said Mr. Fitch, respectfully, “we’re to look 
after your foreman, Mr. Conroy, sir?” 

“You are to take your orders from my correspondent, 
Mr. Fitch, and not to interfere in any way with public senti¬ 
ment. We have nothing to do with the private acts of 
anybody. Justice will probably be done to Conroy. It is 
time that these outrages upon the reputation of the California 
miner should be stopped. When the fame of a whole com¬ 
munity is prejudiced and business injured by the rowdyism 
of a single ruffian,” said Mr. Dumphy, raising his voice 
slightly as he discovered the interested and absorbed pre¬ 
sence of some of his most respectable customers, “ it is 
time that prompt action should be taken.” In fact, he 
would have left behind him a strong Roman flavour and a 
general suggestion of Brutus, had he not unfortunately 
effected an anti-climax by adding, “that’s business, sir,”as 
he retired to his private office. 


Mr. Hamlin is Off with an Old Love. 349 


CHAPTER IV. 

MR. HAMLIN IS OFF WITH AN OLD LOVE. 

Mr. Jack Hamlin did not lose much time on the road 
from Wingdam to Sacramento. His rapid driving, his dust 
bespattered vehicle, and the exhausted condition of his 
horse on arrival, excited but little comment from those who 
knew his habits, and for other criticism he had a supreme 
indifference. He was prudent enough, however, to leave 
his horse at a stable on the outskirts, and having recon¬ 
structed his toilet at a neighbouring hotel, he walked briskly 
toward the address given him by Maxwell. When he reached 
the corner of the street and was within a few paces of the 
massive shining door plate of Madame Eclair’s Fensionnat, 
he stopped with a sudden ejaculation, and after a moment’s 
hesitation, turned on his heel deliberately and began to 
retrace his steps. 

To explain Mr. Hamlin’s singular conduct I shall be 
obliged to disclose a secret of his, which I would fain keep 
from the fair reader. On receiving Oily’s address from 
Maxwell, Mr. Hamlin had only cursorily glanced at it, and 
it was only on arriving before the house that he recognised 
to his horror that it was a boarding-school, with one of 
whose impulsive inmates he had whiled away his idleness a 
few months before in a heart-breaking but innocent flirta¬ 
tion, and a soul-subduing but clandestine correspondence, 
much to the distaste of the correct Principal. To have 
presented himself there in his proper person would be to 
have been refused admittance or subjected to a suspicion 
that would have kept Oily from his hands. For once, Mr. 
Hamlin severely regretted his infelix reputation among the 
sex. But he did not turn his back on his enterprise. He 
retraced his steps only to the main street, visited a barber’s 


350 Gabriel Conroy. 

shop and a jeweller’s, and reappeared on the street again 
with a pair of enormous green goggles and all traces of his 
long distinguishing silken black moustache shaven from his 
lip. When it is remembered that this rascal was somewhat 
vain of his personal appearance, the reader will appreciate 
his earnestness and the extent of his sacrifice. 

Nevertheless, he was a little nervous as he was ushered 
into the formal reception-room of the Fensionnai^ and 
waited until his credentials, countersigned by Maxwell, were 
submitted to Madame Eclair. Mr. Hamlin had no fear of 
being detected by his real name ; in the brief halcyon days 
of his romance he had been known as Clarence Spifflington, 
—an ingenious combination of the sentimental and humorous 
which suited his fancy, and to some extent he felt expressed 
the character of his affection. Fate was propitious; the 
servant returned saying that Miss Conroy would be down 
in a moment, and Mr. Hamlin looked at his watch. Every 
moment was precious; he was beginning to get impatient 
when the door opened again and Oily slipped into the room. 

She was a pretty child, with a peculiar boyish frankness 
of glance and manner, and a refinement of feature that 
fascinated Mr. Hamlin, who, fond as he was of all child¬ 
hood, had certain masculine preferences for good looks. 
She seemed to be struggling with a desire to laugh when 
she entered, and when Jack turned towards her with 
extended hands she held up her own warningly, and 
closing the door behind her cautiously, said, in a demure 
whisper— 

“ She’ll come down as soon as she can slip past 
Madame’s door.” 

« Who ? ” asked Jack. 

“ Sophy.” 

“Who’s Sophy? ” asked Jack, seriously. He had never 
known the name of his Dulcinea. In the dim epistolatory 


M'^ Hamlin is Off with an Old Love. 351 

region of sentiment she had existed only as “ The Blue 
Moselle,” so called from the cerulean hue of her favourite 
raiment, and occasionally, in moments of familiar endear¬ 
ment, as “ Mosey.” 

“ Come, now, pretend you don’t know, will you ? ” said 
Oily, evading the kiss which Jack always had ready for 
childhood. “ If I was her, I wouldn’t have anything to 
say to you after that! ” she added, with that ostentatious 
chivalry of the sex towards each other, in the presence of 
their common enemy. Why, she saw you from the 
window when you first came this morning, when you went 
back again and shaved off your moustache ; she knew you. 
And you don’t know her ! It’s mean, ain’t it ?—they’ll 
grow again, won’t they?”—Miss Oily referred to the 
mustachios and not the affections ! 

Jack was astonished and alarmed. In his anxiety to 
evade or placate the duenna, he had never thought of her 
charge—his sweetheart. Here was a dilemma ! ‘‘ Oh 

yes ! ” said Jack hastily, with a well simulated expression 
of arch affection, Sophy—of course—that’s my little 
game ! But I’ve got a note for you too, my dear,” and he 
handed Oily the few lines that Gabriel had hastily scrawled. 
He watched her keenly, almost breathlessly, as she read them. 
To his utter bewilderment she laid the note down indiffer¬ 
ently and said, “ That’s like Gabe—the old simpleton ! ” 

“ But you’re goin’ to do what he says,” asked Mr. 
Hamlin, “ ain’t you ? ” 

“ No,” said Oily, promptly, I ain’t! Why, Lord I 
Mr. Hamlin, you don’t know that man ; why, he does this 
sort o’ thing every week!” Perceiving Jack stare, she 
went on, “ Why, only last week, didn’t he send to me to 
meet him out on the corner of the street, and he my own 
brother, instead o’ cornin’ here, ez he hez a right to do. 
Go to him at Wingdam ? No ! ketch me 1 ” 


352 


Gabriel Conroy. 

“ But suppose he can’t come,” continued Mr. Hamlin. 

‘‘ Why can’t he come ? I tell you, it’s just foolishness 
and the meanest kind o’ bashfulness. Jes because there 
happened to be a young lady here from San Francisco, 
Rosey Ringround, who was a little took with the old fooL 
If he could come to Wingdam, why couldn’t he come 
here,—that’s what I want to know ? ” 

“ Will you let me see that note ? ” asked Hamlin. 

Oily handed him the note, with the remark, “ He don’t 
spell well—and he won’t let me teach him—the old 
Muggins ! ” 

Hamlin took it and read as follows :— 

“Dear Olly, —If it don’t run a fowl uv yer lessings and the 
Maddam’s willin’ and the young laddies. Brother Gab’s waitin’ fer ye 
at Wingdam, so no more from your affeshtunate brother, Gab.’’ 

Mr. Hamlin was in a quandary. It never had been part 
of his plan to let Olly know the importance of her journey. 
Mr. Maxwell’s injunctions to bring her “ quietly,” his own 
fears of an outburst that might bring a questioning and 
sympathetic school about his ears, and lastly, and not the 
least potently, his own desire to enjoy Oily’s company in 
the long ride to One Horse Gulch without the preoccupa¬ 
tion of grief, with his own comfortable conviction that he 
could eventually bring Gabriel out of this “ fix ” without 
Oily knowing anything about it, all this forbade his telling 
her the truth. But here was a coil he had not thought of. 
Howbeit, Mr. Hamlin was quick at expedients. 

“Then you think Sophy can see me,” he added, with a 
sudden interest. 

“ Of course she will ! ” said Olly, archly. “ It was right 
smart in you to get acquainted with Gabe and set him up 
to writing that, though it’s just like him. He’s that soft 
that anybody could get round him. But there she is now. 


Mr, Hamlin is Off with an Old Love. 353 

Mr. Hamlin; that's her step on the stairs. And I don’t 
suppose you two hez any need of me now.” 

And she slipped out of the room, as demurely as she 
had entered, at the same moment that a tall, slim, and 
somewhat sensational young lady in blue came flying in. 

I can, in justice to Mr. Hamlin, whose secrets have 
been perhaps needlessly violated in the progress of this 
story, do no less than pass over as sacred, and perhaps 
wholly irrelevant to the issue, the interview that took 
place between himself and Miss Sophy. That he suc¬ 
ceeded in convincing that young woman of his unaltered 
loyalty, that he explained his long silence as the result of 
a torturing doubt of the permanence of her own aflfection, 
that his presence at that moment was the successful 
culmination of a long-matured and desperate plan to see 
her once more and learn the truth from her own lips, I 
am sure that no member of my own disgraceful sex will 
question, and I trust no member of a too fond and con¬ 
fiding sex will doubt. That some bitterness was felt by 
Mr. Hamlin, who was conscious of certain irregularities 
during this long interval, and some tears shed by Miss 
Sophy, who was equally conscious of more or less aberra¬ 
tion of her own magnetic instincts during his absence, I 
think will be self-evident to the largely comprehending 
reader. Howbeit, at the end of ten tender yet tranquillis- 
ing minutes Mr. Hamlin remarked, in low thrilling 
tones— 

“ By the aid of a few confiding friends, and playin’ it 
rather 1 dw on them, I got that note to the Conroy girl, but 
the game’s up, and we might as well pass in our checks 
now, if she goes back on us, and passes out, which I 
reckonV her little game. If what you say is true, Sophy, 
and you do sometimes look back to the past, and things is 
generally on the square, you’ll go for that Oily and fetch 

VOL. IV. z 


354 


Gabi'iel Conroy. 

her, for if I go back without that child, and throw up my 
hand, it’s just tampering with the holiest affections and 
playing it mighty rough on as white a man as ever you saw, 
Sophy, to say nothing of your reputation, and everybody 
ready to buck agin us who has ten cents to chip in on. 
You must make her go back with me and put things on a 
specie basis.” 

In spite of the mixed character of Mr. Hamlin’s 
metaphor, his eloquence was so convincing and effective 
that Miss Sophy at once proceeded with considerable indig¬ 
nation to insist upon Oily’s withdrawing her refusal. 

“ If this is the way you are going to act, you horrid 
little thing! after all that me and him’s trusted you, I’d 
like to see the girl in school that will ever teW you anything 
again, that’s all 1 ” a threat so appalling that Oily, who did 
not stop to consider that this confidence was very recent 
and had been forced upon her, assented without further 
delay, exhibited Gabriel’s letter to Madame Eclair, and 
having received that lady’s gracious permission to visit her 
brother, was in half an hour in company with Mr. Hamlin 
on the road. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE THREE VOICES. 

Once free from the trammelling fascinations of Sophy and 
the more dangerous espionage of Madame Eclair, and with 
the object of his mission accomplished, Mr. Hamlin 
recovered his natural spirits, and became so hilarious that 
Oily, who attributed this exaltation to his interview with 
Sophy, felt constrained to make some disparaging remarks 
about that young lady, partly by way of getting even with 
her for her recent interference, and partly in obedience to 


The Three Voices. 


355 


lome well known but unexplained law of the sex. To her 
great surprise, however, Mr. Hamlin’s spirits were in no 
way damped, nor did he make any attempt to defend his 
Lalage. Nevertheless, he listened attentively, and when 
she had concluded he looked suddenly down upon her 
chip hat and thick yellow tresses, and said— 

“ Ever been in the Southern country, Oily ? ** 

“ No,” returned the child. 

“Never down about San Antonio, visiting friends or 
relations ? ” 

“No,” said Oily, decidedly. 

Mr. Hamlin was silent for some time, giving his exclusive 
attention to his horse, who was evincing a disposition to 
“ break ” into a gallop. When he had brought the animal 
back into a trot again he continued— 

“ Therms a woman ! Oily.” 

“ Down in San Antonio ? ” asked Oily. 

Mr.. Hamlin nodded. 

“ Purty ? ” continued the child. 

“ It ain’t the word,” responded Mr. Hamlin, seriously. 
“ Purty ain’t the word.” 

“As purty as Sophy?” continued Oily, a little mis¬ 
chievously. 

“Sophy be hanged !” Mr. Hamlin here quickly pulled 
up himself and horse, both being inclined to an exuberance 
lUartling to the youth and sex of the third party. “ That 
is—I mean something in a different suit entirely.” 

Here he again hesitated, doubtful of his slang. 

“ I see,” quoth Oily; “ diamonds—Sophy’s in spades.” 

The gambler (in sudden and awful admiration), “Dia¬ 
monds—ycu’ve just struck it! but what dojw/ know ’bout 
cards ? ” 

Oily, pompommente^ “ Everything ! Tell our fortunes by 
eni—we girls ! Pm in hearts—Sophy’s in spades—^you’re 


356 Gabriel Conroy. 

in clubs ! Do you know/’ in a thrilling whisper, “ only last 
night I had a letter, a journey, a death, and a gentleman in 
clubs, dark complected—that’s you.” 

Mr. Hamlin—a good deal more at ease through this 
revelation of the universal power of the four suits—“ Speakin’ 
of women, I suppose down there (indicating the school) 
you occasionally hear of angels. What’s their general 
complexion ? ” 

Oily, dubiously, “ In the pictures ? ” 

Hamlin, “ Yes ; ” with a leading question, “ sorter dark 
complected sometimes, hey ? ” 

Oily, positively, “Never ! always white.” 

Jack, “ Always white ? ” 

Oily, “ Yes, and flabby !” 

They rode along for some time silently. Presently Mr. 
Hamlin broke into a song, a popular song, one verse of 
which Oily supplied with such deftness of execution and 
melodiousness of pipe that Mr. Hamlin instantly suggested 
a duet, and so over the dead and barren wastes of the Sac- 
tamento plains they fell to singing, often barbarously, some- 
cimes melodiously, but never self-consciously, wherein, I 
take it, they approximated to the birds and better class of 
poets, so that rough teamsters, rude packers, and weary 
wayfarers were often touched, as with the birds and poets 
aforesaid, to admiration and tenderness ; and when they 
stopped for supper at a wayside station, and Jack Hamlin 
displayed that readiness of resource, audacity of manner 
and address, and perfect and natural obliviousness to the 
criticism of propriety or the limitations of precedent, and 
when, moreover, the results of all this was a much better 
supper than perhaps a more reputable companion could 
have procured, she thought she had never known a more 
engaging person than this Knave of Clubs. 

When they were fairly on the road again, Oily began tA 


The Three Voices. 


357 

eihiblt S3me curiosity regarding her brother, and asked 
some few questions about Gabriel’s family, which disclosed 
the fact that Jack’s acquaintance with Gabriel was com¬ 
paratively recent. 

“ Then you never, saw July at all ?” asked Oily. 

‘‘July,” queried Jack, reflectively; “what’s she like?” 

“ I don't know whether she’s a heart or a spade,’* said 
Oily, as thoughtfully. 

Jack was silent for some moments, and then after a 
pause, to Oily’s intense astonishment, proceeded to sketch, 
in a few vigorous phrases, the external characteristics of Mrs. 
Conroy. 

“ Why, you said you never saw her ! ” ejaculated Oily. 

“No more I did,” responded the gambler, with a quick 
laugh; “ this is only a little bluff.” 

It had grown cold with the brief twilight and the coming 
on of night. For some time the black, unchanging outlines 
of the distant Coast Range were sharply silhouetted against 
a pale, ashen sky, that at last faded utterly, leaving a few 
stars behind as emblems of the burnt-out sunset. The red 
road presently lost its calm and even outline in the swiftly 
gathering shadows, or to Oily’s fancy was stopped by shape¬ 
less masses of rock or giant-like trunks of trees that in turn 
seemed to give way before the skilful hand and persistent 
will of her driver. At times a chill exhalation from a road¬ 
side ditch came to Oily like the damp breath of an open 
grave, and the child shivered even beneath the thick travel¬ 
ling shawl of Mr. Hamlin, with which she was enwrapped. 
Whereat Jack at once produced a flask and prevailed upon 
Oily to drink something that set her coughing, but which 
^hat astute and experienced child at once recognised as 
whisky. Mr. Hamlin, to her surprise, however, did not 
himself partake, a fact whivch she at once pointed out to 
him. 


358 Gabriel Conroy, 

“At an early age, Oily,” said Mr. Hamlin, with, infinite 
gravity, “ I promised an infirm and aged relative never to 
indulge in spirituous liquors, except on a physician’s pre¬ 
scription. I carry this flask subject to the doctor’s orders. 
Never having ordered me to drink any, I don’t.” 

As it was too dark for the child to observe Mr. Hamlin’s 
eyes, v'hich, after the fashion of her sex, she consulted 
much oftener than his speech for his real meaning, and 
was as often deceived, she said nothing, and Mr. Hamlin 
relapsed into silence. At the end of five minutes he said— 

“ She was a woman. Oily—you bet! ” 

Oily, with great tact and discernment, instantly referring 
back to Mr. Hamlin’s discourse of an hour before, queried, 
“ That girl in the Southern country ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hamlin. 

“Tell me all about her,” said Oily—“all you know.” 

“That ain’t much,” mused Hamlin, with a slight sigh. 
“ Ah, Oily, she could sing! ” 

“ With the piano ? ” said Oily, a little superciliously. 

“With the organ,” said Hamlin. 

Oily, whose sole idea of this instrument was of the 
itinerant barrel variety, yawned slightly, and with a very 
perceptible lack of interest said that she hoped she would 
see her some time when she came up that way and was 
“going ’round.” 

Mr. Hamlin did not laugh, but after a few minutes* 
rapid driving, began to explain to Oily with great earnest¬ 
ness the character of a church organ. 

“ I used to play once. Oily, in a church. They did say 
that I used sometimes to fetch that congregation, jest 
snatch ’em bald-headed. Oily, but it’s a long time ago! 
There was one hymn in particular that I used to run on 
consid’rable—one o’ them Masses o’ Mozart—one that I 
heard her sing. Oily; it went something like this;” and 


The Three Voices. 


359 

Jack proceeded to lift his voice in the praise of Our Lady 
of Sorrows, with a serene unconsciousness to his surround 
ings, and utter absorption in his theme that would have 
become the most enthusiastic acolyte. The springs creaked, 
the wheels rattled, the mare broke, plunged, and recovered 
herself, the slight vehicle swayed from side to side. Oily’s 
hat bruised and flattened itself against his shoulder, and 
still Mr. Hamlin sang. When he had finished he looked 
down at Oily. She was asleep ! 

Jack was an artist and an enthusiast, but not unreason¬ 
able nor unforgiving. ‘‘ It’s the whisky,” he murmured to 
himself, in an apologetic recitation to the air he had just 
been singing. He changed the reins to his other hand 
with infinite caution and gentleness, slowly passed his dis 
engaged arm round the swaying little figure, until he had 
drawn the chip hat and the golden tresses down upon his 
breast and shoulder. In this attitude, scarcely moving a 
muscle lest he should waken the sleeping child, at midnight 
he came upon the twinkling lights of Fiddletown. Here 
he procured a fresh horse, dispensing with an ostler and 
harnessing the animal himself, with such noiseless skill and 
quickness that Oily, propped up in the buggy with pillows 
and blankets borrowed from the Fiddletown hostelry, slept 
through it all, nor wakened even after they were again upon 
the road, and had begun the long ascent of the Wingdam 
turnpike. 

It wanted but an hour of daybreak when he reached the 
summit, and even then he only slackened his pace when 
his wheels sank to their hubs in the beaten dust of the 
stage road. The darkness of that early hour was intensified 
by the gloom of the heavy pine woods through which the 
red road threaded its difficult and devious way. It was 
rery still. Hamlin could hardly hear the dead, muffled 
plunge of his own horse in the dusty track before him, and 


360 Gabriel Conroy. 

yet once or twice he stopped to listen. His quick ear 
detected the sound of voices and the jingle of Mexican 
spurs, apparently approaching behind him. Mr. Hamlin 
knew that he had not passed any horseman and was for 
a moment puzzled. But then he recalled the fact that a 
few hundred yards beyond, the road was intersected by 
the “cut-off” to One Horse Gulch, which, after runn'ng 
parallel with the Wingdam turnpike for half a mile, crossed 
it in the forest. The voices were on that road going the 
same way. Mr. Hamlin pushed on his horse to the cross¬ 
ing, and hidden by the darkness and the trunks of the 
giant pines, pulled up to let the strangers precede him. 
In a few moments the voices were abreast of him and 
stationary. The horsemen had apparently halted. 

“ Here seems to be a road,” said a voice quite audibly. 

“ All right, then,” returned another, “ it’s the * cut-off. 
We’ll save an hour, sure.” 

A third voice here struck in potentially, “ Keep the 
stage road. If Joe Hall get’s wind of what’s up, he’ll run 
his man down to Sacramento for safe keeping. If he does 
he’ll take this road—it’s the only one—sabe?—we can’t 
miss him !” 

Jack Hamlin leaned forward breathlessly in his seat. 

“ But it’s an hour longer this way,” growled the second 
voice. “ The boys will wait,” responded , the previous 
speaker. There was a laugh, a jingling of spurs, and the 
invisible procession moved slowly forward in the darkness. 

Mr. Hamlin did not stir a muscle until the voices failed 
before him in the distance. Then he cast a quick glance 
at the child; she still slept quietly, undisturbed by the halt 
or those ominous voices which had brought so sudden a 
colour into her companion’s cheek and so baleful a light in 
his dark eyes. Yet for a moment Mr. Hamlin hesitated. 
To go forward to Wingdam now would necessitate hu 


The Three Voices, 361 

following cautiously in the rear of the Lynchers, and so 
prevent his giving a timely alarm. To strike across to 
One Horse Gulch by the “cut-off” would lose him the 
chance of meeting the Sheriff and his prisoner, had they 
been forewarned and were escaping in time. But for the 
impediment of the unconscious little figure beside him, he 
would have risked a dash through the party ahead of him. 
But that was not to be thought of now. He must follow 
them to Wingdam, leave the child, and trust to luck to 
reach One Horse Gulch before them. If they delayed a 
moment at Wingdam it could be done. A feeling 
of yearning tenderness and pity succeeded the slight 
impatience with which he had a moment before regarded 
his encumbering charge. He held her in his arms, 
scarcely daring to breathe lest he should waken her— 
hoping that she might sleep until they reached Wingdam, 
and that leaving her with his faithful henchman “ Pete,” he 
might get away before she was aroused to embarrassing 
inquiry. Mr. Hamlin had a man’s dread of scenes with 
even so small a specimen of the sex, and for once in his 
life he felt doubtful of his own readiness, and feared lest 
in his excitement he might reveal the imminent danger of 
her brother. Perhaps he was never before so conscious 
of that danger; perhaps he was never before so interested 
in the life of any one. He began to see things with Oily’s 
eyes—to look upon events with reference to her feelings 
rather than his own ; if she had sobbed and cried this 
sympathetic rascal really believed that he would have cried 
too. Such was the unconscious and sincere flattery of 
admiration. He was relieved, when with the first streaks 
of dawn, his mare wearily clattered over the scattered 
river pebbles and “tailings” that paved the outskirts of 
Wingdam. He was still more relieved when the Three 
Voices of the Night, now &intly visible as three armed 


362 Gabriel Conroy. 

horsemen, drew up before the verandah of the Wingdani 
Hotel, dismounted, and passed into the bar-room. And 
he was perfectly content, when a moment later he lifted 
the still sleeping Oily in his arms and bore her swiftly yet 
cautiously to his room. To awaken the sleeping Pete on 
the floor above, and drag him half-dressed and bewildered 
into the presence of the unconscious child, as she lay on 
Jack Hamlin’s own bed, half buried in a heap of shawls 
and rugs, was only the work of another moment. 

“Why, Mars Jack! Press de Lord—it’s a chile!” said 
Pete, recoiling in sacred awe and astonishment. 

“Hold your jaw!” said Jack, in a fierce whisper, 
“you’ll waken her! Listen to me, you chattering idiot. 
Don’t waken her, if you want to keep the bones in your 
creaking old skeleton whole enough for the doctors to buy. 
Let her sleep as long as she can. If she wakes up and 
asks after me, tell her I’m gone for her brother. Do you 
hear ? Give her anything she asks for—except—the 
truth ! What are you doing, you old fool ? ” 

Pete was carefully removing the mountain of shawls and 
blankets that Jack had piled upon Oily. “’Fore God, 
Mars Jack—you’s smuddering dat chile!” was his only 
response. Nevertheless Jack was satisfied with a certain 
vague tenderness in his manipulation, and said curtly, 
“ Get me a horse ! ” 

“ It ain’t to be did. Mars Jack; de stables is all gone— 
cleaned! Dey’s a rush over to One Horse Gulch, all 
day!” 

“There are three horses at the door,” said Jack, with 
wicked significance. 

“For de love of God, Mars Jack, don’t ye do dat!'* 
ejaculated Pete, in unfeigned and tremulous alarm. “ Dey 
don’t take dem kind o’ jokes yer worth a cent—dey’d be 
doin’ somefin’ awful to ye, sah—shuah’s yer born ! ” 


Mr, Dumphy is Perplexed. 363 

But Jack, with the child lying there peaceably in his own 
bsd, and the Three Voices growing husky in the bar-room 
below, regained all his old audacity. “ I haven’t made up 
my mind,” continued Jack, coolly, “ which of the three I’ll 
take, but you’ll find out from the owner when I do ! Tell 
him that Mr. Jack Hamlin left his compliments and a mare 
and buggy for him. You can say that if he keeps the mare 
from breaking and gives her her head down hill, she can 
do her mile inside of 2.45. Hush! not a word! Bye- 
bye.” He turned, lifted the shawl from the fresh cheek of 
the sleeping Oily, kissed her, and shaking his fist at Pete, 
vanished. 

For a few moments the negro listened breathlessly. 
And then there came the sharp, quick clatter of hoofs from 
the rocky road below, and he sank dejectedly at the foot 
of the bed. “ He’s gone—done it I Lord save us I but it’s 
a h an gin’ matter yer!” And even as he spoke Mr. Jack 
Hamlin, mounted on the fleet mustang that had. been 
ridden by the Potential Voice, with his audacious face 
against the red sunrise and his right shoulder squarely 
advanced, was butting away the morning mists that rolled 
slowly along the river road to One Horse Gulch. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MR. DUMPHY IS PERPLEXED BY A MOVEMENT IN 
REAL ESTATE. 

Mr. Dumphy’s confidence in himself was so greatly restored 
that several business enterprises of great pith and moment, 
whcse currents for the past few days had been turned awry, 
and so “ lost the name of action," were taken up by him 
with great vigour and corresponding joy to the humblef 
business associates who had asked him just to lend hii 


364 Gabriel Conroy, 

name to that project, and make “ a big thing of it.” He 
had just given his royal sanction and a cheque to an 
Association for the Encouragement of Immigration, by the 
distribution through the sister States of one million seduc¬ 
tive pamphlets, setting forth the various resources and 
advantages of California for the farmer, and proving that 
one hundred and fifty dollars spent for a passage thither 
was equal to the price of a farm; he had also assisted in 
sending the eloquent Mr. Blowhard and the persuasive 
Mr. Windygust to present these facts orally to the benighted 
dwellers of the East, and had secured the services of two 
eminent Californian statisticians to demonstrate the fact, 
that more people were killed by lightning and frozen to 
death in the streets of New York in a single year than were 
ever killed by railroad accidents or human violence in Cali¬ 
fornia during the past three centuries; he had that day 
conceived the ‘‘truly magnificent plan” of bringing the 
waters of Lake Tahoe to San Francisco by ditches, thereby 
enabling the citizens to keep the turf in their door-yards 
green through the summer. He had started two banks, 
a stage line, and a watering place, whose climate and springs 
were declared healthful by edict, and were aggressively 
advertised; and he had just projected a small suburban 
town that should bear his name. He had returned from 
this place in high spirits with a company of friends m the 
morning after this interview with Poinsett. There was 
certainly no trace of the depression of that day in his 
manner. 

It was a foggy morning, following a clear, still night— 
an atmospheric condition not unusual at that season of the 
year to attract Mr. Dumphy’s attention, yet he was conscious 
on reaching his office of an undue oppressiveness in the air 
that indisposed him to exertion, and caused him to remove 
bis coat and cravat. Then he fell to work upon his morn 


Mr. Dumphy is Perplexed. 365 

ing’s mail, and speedily forgot the weather. There was a 
letter from Mrs. Sepulvida, disclosing the fact that, owing 
to the sudden and unaccountable drying up of the springs 
on the lower plains, large numbers of her cattle had died 
of thirst and were still perishing. This was of serious im¬ 
port to Mr. Dumphy, who had advanced money on this 
perishable stock, and he instantly made a memorandum to 
check this sudden freak of Nature, which he at once attri¬ 
buted to feminine carelessness of management. Further 
on Mrs. Sepulvida inquired particularly as to the condition 
of the Conroy mine, and displayed a disposition character¬ 
istic of her sex, to realise at once on her investment. Her 
letter ended thus : But I shall probably see you in San 
Francisco. Pepe says that this morning the markings on 
the beach showed the rise of a tide or wave during the 
night higher than any ever known since one thousand eight 
hundred. I do not feel safe so near the beach, and shall 
rebuild in the spring. Mr. Dumphy smiled grimly to him¬ 
self. He had at one time envied Poinsett. But here was 
the woman he was engaged to marry, careless, improvident, 
with a vast estate, and on the eve of financial disaster 
through her carelessness, and yet actually about to take a 
journey of two hundred miles because of some foolish, 
womanish whim or superstition. It would be a fine thing 
if this man, to whom good fortune fell without any effort 
on his part—this easy, elegant, supercilious Arthur Poinsett, 
who was even indifferent to that good fortune, should find 
himself tricked and deceived ! should have to apply to him, 
Dumphy, for advice and assistance ! And this, too, after 
his own advice and assistance regarding the claims of 
Colonel Starbottle’s client had been futile. The revenge 
would be complete. Mr. Dumphy rubbed his hands in 
prospective satisfaction. 

When, a few moments later. Colonel Starbottle’s card wai 


366 Gabriel Conroy, 

put into his hand Mr. Dumphy’s satisfaction was complete. 
This was the day that the gallant Colonel was to call for an 
answer; it was evident that Arthur had not seen him, nor 
had he made the discovery of Starbottle’s unknown client. 
The opportunity of vanquishing this man without the aid or 
even knowledge of Poinsett was now before him. By way 
of preparing himself for the encounter, as well as punishing 
the Colonel, he purposely delayed the interview, and for full 
five minutes kept his visitor cooling his heels in the outer 
office. 

He was seated at his desk, ostentatiously preoccupied, 
when Colonel Starbottle was at last admitted. He did not 
raise his head when the door opened, nor in fact until the 
Colonel, stepping lightly forward, walked to Dumphy’s side, 
and deliberately unhooking his cane from its accustomed 
rest on his arm, laid it, pronouncedly, on the desk before 
him. The Colonel’s face was empurpled, the Colonel’s chest 
was efflorescent and bursting, the Colonel had the general 
effect of being about to boil over the top button of his coat, 
but his manner was jauntily and daintily precise. 

One moment!—a single moment, sir! ” he said, with 
husky politeness. ‘‘Before proceeding to business—er— 
we will devote a single moment to the necessary explana¬ 
tions of—er—er—a gentleman. The kyard now lying before 
you, sir, was handed ten minutes ago to one of your sub¬ 
ordinates. I wish to inquire, sir, if it was then delivered to 
you ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Dumphy, impatiently. 

Colonel Starbottle leaned over Mr. Dumphy’s desk and 
coolly rung his bell. Mr. Dumphy’s clerk instantly appeared 
at the door. “ I wish—” said the Colonel, addressing him¬ 
self to the astounded employ^ as he stood loftily over Mr 
Dumphy’s chair—“I have—er—in fact sent for you, tg 
withdraw the offensive epithets I addressed to you, and the 


Mr, Dumphy is Perplexed. 367 

threats—of er—of er—personal violence ! The offence—is 
not, yours—but—er—rests with your employer, for whose 
apology I am—er—now waiting. Nevertheless I am ready, 
sir, to hold myself at your service—that is—er—of course— 
after my responsibility—er—with your master—er—ceases I” 

Mr. Dumphy, who in the presence of Colonel Starbottle 
felt his former awkwardness return, signed with a forced 
smile to his embarrassed clerk to withdraw, and said hastily, 
but with an assumption of easy familiarity, “Sorry, Colonel, 
sorry, but I was very busy, and am now. No offence. All 
a mistake, you know! business man and business hours,” and 
Mr. Dumphy leaned back in his chair, and emitted his rare 
cachinnatory bark. 

“ Glad to hear it, sir, I accept your apology,” said the 
Colonel, recovering his good humour and his profanity to¬ 
gether, “ hang me, if I didn’t think it was another affair like 
that I had with old Maje Tolliver, of Georgia. Called on 
him in Washington in ’48 during session. Boy took up my 
kyard. Waited ten minutes, no reply! Then sent friend, 
poor Jeff Boomerang, dead now, killed in New Orleans 
by Ben Pastor—with challenge. Hang me, sir, after the 
second shot, Maje sends for me, lying thar with hole in 
both lungs, gasping for breath. * It’s all a blunder. Star,’ 
he says, * boy never brought kyard. Horsewhip the nigger 
for me. Star, for I reckon I won’t live to do it,’ and died 
like a gentleman, blank me ! ” 

“ What have you got to propose ? ” said Mr. Dumphy, 
hastily, seeing an opportunity to stop the flow of the 
Colonel’s recollections. 

“ According to my memorv, at our last interview over the 
social glass in your own house, I think something was said 
of a proposition coming from you. That is—er,” continued 
the Colonel, loftily, “ I hold myself responsible for the mis¬ 
take, if any.” 


368 Gabriel Conroy, 

It had been Mr. Dumphy’s first intention to assume the 
roughly offensive; to curtly inform Colonel Starbottle of the 
flight of his confederate, and dare him to do his worst. But 
for certain vague reasons he changed his plan of tactics. 
He drew his chair closer to the Colonel, and clapping his 
hand familiarly on his shoulder, began— 

“ You’re a man of the world, Starbottle, so am I. 
Sabel You’re a gentleman—so am I,” he continued, 
hastily. “But I’m a business man, and you’re not. Sabei 
Let’s understand each other. No offence, you know, but 
in the way of business. This woman, claiming to be my 
wife, don’t exist—it’s all right, you know, I understand. 
I don’t blame you^ but you’ve been deceived, and all that 
sort of thing. I’ve got the proofs. Now as a man of the 
world and a gentleman and a business man, when I say the 
game’s up ! you’ll understand me. Look at that—there ! ” 
He thrust into Starbottle’s hand the telegram of the 
preceding day, “ There ! the man’s hung by this time— 
lynched ! The woman’s gone ! ” 

Colonel Starbottle read the telegram without any per¬ 
ceptible dismay or astonishment. 

“ Conroy ! Conroy !—don’t knew the man. There was 
a McConroy, of St. Jo, but I don’t think it’s the same. 
No, sir ! This ain’t like him, sir ! Don’t seem to be a duel, 
unless he’d posted the man to kill on sight—murder’s an 
ugly word to use to gentlemen. D—n me, sir, I don’t 
know but he could hold the man responsible who sent that 
despatch. It’s offensive, sir—very ! ” 

“ And you don’t know Mrs. Conroy ? ” continued Mr. 
Dumphy, fixing his eyes on Colonel Starbottle’s face. 

“ Mrs. Conroy ! The wife of the superintendent—one 
of the most beautiful women ! Good Ged, sir, I do ! And 
I’m dev’lish sorry for her. But what’s this got to do with 
our affair ? Oh ! I see, Ged ! ”—the Colonel suddenly 


Mr, Dumphy is Perplexed. 369 

chuckled, drew out his handkerchief, and waved it in the 
air with deprecatory gallantry, “gossip, sir, all gossip. 
People will talk ! A fine woman ! Blank me, if she was 
inclined to show some attention to Colonel Starbottle— 
Ged, sir, it was no more than other women have. You 
comprehend, Dumphy? Ged, sir, so the story’s got round, 
eh ?—husband’s jealous—killed wrong man ! Folks think 
she’s run off with Colonel Starbottle, ha ! ha ! No, sir,” 
he continued, suddenly dropping into an attitude of dig¬ 
nified severity. “ You can say that Colonel Starbottle 
branded the story as a lie, sir ! That whatever might have 
been the foolish indiscretion of a susceptible sex, Colonel 
Starbottle will defend the reputation of that lady, sir, with 
his life—with his life ! ” 

Absurd and ridiculous as this sudden diversion of 
Colonel Starbottle from the point at issue had become, 
Dumphy could not doubt his sincerity, nor the now self- 
evident fact that Mrs. Conroy was not his visitor’s mysterious 
client! Mr. Dumphy felt that his suddenly built up theory 
was demolished and his hope with it. He was still at the 
mercy of this conceited braggart and the invisible power 
behind him—whoever or whatever it might be. Mr. 
Dumphy was not inclined to superstition, but he began to 
experience a strange awe of his unknown persecutor, and 
resolved at any risk to discover who it was. Could it be 
really his wife ?—had not the supercilious Poinsett been 
himself tricked—or was he not now trying to trick him, 
Dumphy? Couldn’t Starbottle be bribed to expose at 
least the name of his client ? He would try it 

“ I said just now you had been deceived in this 
woman who represents herself to be my wife. 1 find I 
have been mistaken in the person, who I believe imposed 
upon you, and it is possible that I may be otherwise 
wrong. My wife may be alive I am willing to admit 

VOL. IV. 2 A 


3 70 Gabriel Conroy. 

it. Vriiig htr here to-morrow and I will accept it as a 
fact” 

You forget that she refuses to see you again,” said 
f jolonel Starbottle, “ until she has established her claim by 
process of law.” 

“ That’s so ! that’s all right, old fellow ; we understand 
each other. Now, suppose that we business men—as a 
business maxim, you know—always prefer to deal with 
principals. Now suppose we even go so far as to do that 
and yet pay an agent’s commission, perhaps—you under¬ 
stand me—even a bonus. Good ! That’s business ! You 
understand that as a gentleman and a man of the world. 
Now, I say, bring me your principal—fetch along that 
woman, and I’ll make it all right with you. Stop ! I know 
what you’re going to say; you’re bound by honour and all 
that—I understand your position as a gentleman, and 
respect it. Then let me know where I can find her! 
Understand—you sha’n’t be compromised as bringing 
about the interview in any way. I’ll see that you’re pro¬ 
tected in your commissions from your client; and for my 
part—if a cheque for five thousand dollars will satisfy you 
of my desire to do the right thing in this matter, it’s at 
your service.” 

The Colonel rose to his feet and applied himself appa¬ 
rently to the single and silent inflation of his chest, for the 
space of a minute. When the upper buttons of his coat 
seemed to be on the point of flying off with a report, he 
suddenly extended his hand and grasped Dumphy’s with 
fervour. “ Permit me,” he said, in a voice husky with 
emotion, “ to congratulate myself on dealing with a gentle- 
mar and a man of honour. Your sentiments, sir, I don’t 
care if I do say it, do you credit! I am proud, sir,” con¬ 
tinued the Colonel, warmly, “ to have made your acquaint¬ 
ance 1 But I regret to say, sir, that I cannot give you the 


Mr. Dumphy is Perplexed. 371 

^formation you require. I do not myself know the name 
or address of my client.^’ 

The look of half-contemptuous satisfaction which had 
irradiated Dumphy’s face at the beginning of this speech, 
changed to one of angry suspicion at its close. “ That’s a 

d-d queer oversight of yours,” he ejaculated, with an 

expression as nearly insulting as he dared to make it. 
Colonel Starbottle did not apparently notice the manner oi 
his speech, but drawing his chair close beside Dumphy, he 
laid his hand upon his arm. 

“ Your confidence as a man of honour and a gentle¬ 
man,” he began, ‘‘ demands equal confidence and frankness 
on. my part, and Culp. Starbottle of Virginia is not the 
man to withhold it ! When I state that I do know the 
name and address of my client, I believe, sir, there is no 
one now living, who will—er—er—require or—er—deem 
it necessary for me to repeat the assertion ! Certainly not, 
sir,” added the Colonel, lightly waving his hand, “the 
gentleman who has just honoured me with his confidence 
and invited mine—I thank you, sir,” he continued, as Mr. 
Dumphy made a hasty motion of assent, “ and will go on. 

“ It is not necessary for me to name the party who first 
put me in possession of the facts. You will take my word 
as a gentleman—er—that it is some one unknown to you, 
of unimportant position, though of strict respectability, and 
one who acted only as the agent of my real client. When 
the case was handed over to me there was also put into 
my possession a sealed envelope containing the name of 
my client and principal witness. My injunctions were not 
to open it until all negotiations had failed and it was 
necessary to institute legal proceedings. That envelope I 
^ave here. You perceive it is unopened !” 

Mr. Dumphy unconsciously reached out his hand. With 
1 gesture of polite deprecation Colonel Starbottle evaded 


372 Gabriel Conroy, 

it, and placing the letter on the table before him, continued, 
*‘It is unnecessary to say that—er—there being in my 
judgment no immediate necessity for the beginning of a 
suit—the injunctions still restrain me, and I shall not open 
the letter. If, however, I accidentally mislay it on this 
table and it is returned to me to-morrow, sealed as before, 
I believe, sir, as a gentleman and a man of honour I violate 
no pledge.” 

“ I see,” said Mr. Dumphy, with a short laugh. 

Excuse me, if I venture to require another condition, 
merely as a form among men of honour. Write as I dic¬ 
tate.” Mr. Dumphy took up a pen. Colonel Starbottle 
placed one hand on his honourable breast and began 
slowly and meditatively to pace the length of the room 
with the air of a second measuring the distance for his 
principal. “ Are you ready ? ” 

“Go on,” said Dumphy, impatiently. 

“ I hereby pledge myself—er—er—that in the event of 
any disclosure by me—er—of confidential communications 
from Colonel Starbottle to me, I shall hold myself ready to 
afford him the usual honourable satisfaction—er—common 
among gentlemen, at such times or places, and with such 
weapons as he may choose, without further formality of 
challenge, and that—er—er—failing in that I do thereby 
proclaim myself, without posting, a liar, poltroon, and 
dastard.” 

In the full pre-occupation of his dignified composition, 
and possibly from an inability to look down over the in¬ 
creased exaggeration of his swelling breast. Colonel Star¬ 
bottle did not observe the contemptuous smile which curled 
the lip of his amanuensis. Howbeit Mr. Dumphy signed 
the document and handed it to him. Colonel Starbottle 
put it in his pocket. Nevertheless he lingered by Mr 
Dumphy's side. 


Mr. Dumphy is Perplexed. 373 

“ The—er—er—cheque,’* said the Colonel, with a slight 
cough, “ had better be to your order, endorsed by you— 
to spare any criticism hereafter.” 

Mr. Dumphy hesitated a moment He would have pre¬ 
ferred as a matter of business to have first known the 
contents of the envelope, but with a slight smile he dashed 
off the cheque and handed it to the Colonel. “ If—er—it 
would not be too much trouble,” said the Colonel, jauntily, 
‘‘for the same reason just mentioned, would you give that 
—er—piece of paper to one of your clerks to draw the 
money for me ? ” 

Mr. Dumphy impatiently, with his eyes on the envelope, 
rang his bell and handed the cheque to the clerk, while 
Colonel Starbottle, with an air of abstraction, walked dis¬ 
creetly to the window. 

For the rest of Colonel Starbottle’s life he never ceased 
to deplore this last act of caution, and regret that he had 
not put the cheque in his pocket. For as he walked to 
the window the floor suddenly appeared to rise beneath 
his feet and as suddenly sank again, and he was thrown 
violently against the mantelpiece. He felt sick and giddy. 
With a terrible apprehension of apoplexy in his whirling 
brain, he turned toward his companion, who had risen 
from his seat and was supporting himself by his swinging 
desk with a panic-stricken face and a pallor equal to his 
own. In another moment a bookcase toppled with a crash 
to the floor, a loud outcry arose from the outer offices, and 
amidst the sounds of rushing feet, the breaking of glass, 
and the creaking of timber, the two men dashed with 
a common instinct to the door. It opened two inches and 
remained fixed. With the howl of a caged wild beast 
Dumphy threw himself against the rattling glass of the 
window that opened on the level of the street. In another 
uistant Colonel Starbottle was beside him on the sidewalk. 


374 


Gabriel Conroy, 

and the next they were separated, unconsciously, uncar* 
ingly, as if they had been the merest strangers in contact 
in a crowd. The business that had brought them together, 
the unfinished, incomplete, absorbing interests of a moment 
ago were forgotten—were buried in the oblivion of another 
existence, which had no sympathy with this, whose only 
instinct was to fly—where, they knew not! 

The middle of the broad street was filled with a crowd 
of breathless, pallid, death-stricken men who had lost all 
sense but the common instinct of animals. There were 
hysterical men, who laughed loudly without a cause, and 
talked incessantly of what they knew not. There were 
dumb, paralysed men, who stood helplessly and hopelessly 
beneath cornices- and chimneys that toppled over and 
crushed them. There were automatic men, who flying, 
carried with them the work on which they were engaged— 
one whose hands were full of bills and papers, another who 
held his ledger under his arm. There were men who had 
forgotten the ordinary instincts of decency—some half- 
dressed. There were men who rushed from the fear of 
death into its presence; two were picked up, one who had 
jumped through a skylight, another who had blindly leaped 
from a fourth-story window. There were brave men who 
trembled like children j there was one whose life had been 
spent in scenes of daring and danger, who cowered para¬ 
lysed in the corner of the room from which a few inches 
of plastering had fallen. There were hopeful men who 
believed that the danger was over, and having passed, 
would, by some mysterious law, never recur; there were 
others who shook their heads and said that the next shock 
would be fatal. There were crowds around the dust that 
arose from fallen chimneys and cornices, around runaway 
horses that had dashed as madly as their drivers against 
lamp-posts, around telegraph and newspaper offices eager 


Mr, Dumphy is Perplexed. 375 

to know the extent of the disaster. Along the remoter 
avenues and cross-streets dwellings were deserted, people 
sat upon their doorsteps or in chairs upon the sidewalks, 
fearful of the houses they had built with their own hands, 
and doubtful even of this blue arch above them that smiled 
so deceitfully; of those far-reaching fields beyond, which 
they had cut into lots and bartered and sold, and which 
now seemed to suddenly rise against them, or slip and 
wither away from their very feet. It seemed so outrageous 
that this dull, patient earth, whose homeliness they had 
adorned and improved, and which, whatever their other 
fortune or vicissitudes, at least had been their sure inherit¬ 
ance, should have become so faithless. Small wonder that 
the owner of a little house, which had sunk on the re¬ 
claimed water front, stooped in the speechless and solemn 
absurdity of his wrath to shake his clenched fist in the face 
of the Great Mother. 

The real damage to life and property had been so slight 
and in such pronounced contrast to the prevailing terror, 
that half an hour later only a sense of the ludicrous 
remained with the greater masses of the people. Mr. 
Dumphy, like all practical, unimaginative men, was among 
the first to recover his presence of mind with the passing 
of the immediate danger. People took confidence when 
this great man, who had so much to lose, after sharply 
remanding his clerks and everybody else back to business, 
re-entered his office. He strode at once to his desk. But 
the envelope was gone ! He looked hurriedly among his 
papers—on the floor—by the broken window—but in 
/ain. 

Mr. Dumphy instantly rang his bell. The clerk appeared 
“ Was that draft paid ? ” 

<‘No, sir; we were counting the money when 
Stop it!—return the draft to me.’^ 


376 Gabriel Conroy. 

The young man was confiding to his confreres his sus¬ 
picions of a probable “ run ” on the bank as indicated by 
Mr. Dumphy’s caution, when he was again summoned by 
Mr. Dumphy. 

“Go to Mr. Poinsett’s office and ask him to come here 
at once.” 

In a few moments the clerk returned out of breath. 

“Mr. Poinsett left a quarter of an hour ago, sir, for San 
Antonio.” 

“San Antonio?” 

“Yes, sir—they say there’s bad news from the Mission." 


CHAPTER VII. 

IN WHICH BOTH JUSTICE AND THE HEAVENS FALL. 

The day following the discovery of the murder of Victor 
Ramirez was one of the intensest excitement in One Horse 
Gulch. It was not that killing was rare in that pastoral 
community—foul murder had been done there upon the 
bodies of various citizens of more or less respectability, 
and the victim in the present instance was a stranger and 
a man who awakened no personal sympathy; but the sus¬ 
picion that swiftly and instantly attached to two such 
important people as Mr. and Mrs. Conroy, already objects 
of*severe criticism, was sufficient to exalt this particular 
crime above all others in thrilling interest. For two days 
business was practically suspended. " • 

The discovery of the murder was made by Sal, who 
stumbled upon the body of the unfortunate Victor early 
the next morning during a walk on Conroy’s Hill, mani- 
festly in search of the missing man, who had not returned 
to the hotel that night. A few flippant souls, misunder 
standing Miss Clark’s interest in the stranger, asserted that 


Justice and the Heavens Fall. 377 

he had committed suicide to escape her attentions, but all 
jocular hypothesis ceased when it became known that 
Gabriel and his wife had fled. Then came the report that 
Gabriel had been seen by a passing miner early in the day 
‘‘shoving” the stranger along the trail, with his hand on 
his collar, and exchanging severe words. Then the willing 
testimony of Miss Clark that she had seen Mrs. Conroy 
in secret converse with Victor before the murder; then 
the unwilling evidence of the Chinaman who had overtaken 
Gabriel with the letter, but who heard the sounds of 
quarrelling and cries for help in the bushes after his depar¬ 
ture ; but this evidence was excluded from the inquest, by 
virtue of the famous Californian law that a Pagan was of 
necessity a liar, and that truth only resided in the breast 
of the Christian Caucasian, and was excluded from the 
general public for its incompatibility with Gabriel’s subse¬ 
quent flight, and the fact that the Chinaman, being a fool, 
was probably mistaken in the hour. Then there was the 
testimony of the tunnel-men to Gabriel’s appearance on 
the hill that night. There was only one important proof 
not submitted to the public or the authorities—Mrs. Con¬ 
roy’s note—picked up by Sal, handed to Mrs. Markle, and 
given by her to Lawyer Maxwell. The knowledge of this 
document was restricted to the few already known to the 
reader. 

A dozen or more theories of the motive of the deed at 
different hours of the day occupied and disturbed the 
public mind. That Gabriel had come upon a lover of his 
wife in the act of eloping with her, and had slain him out 
of hand, was the first. That Gabriel had decoyed the 
man to an interview by simulating his wife’s handwriting, 
and then worked his revenge on his body, was accepted 
later as showing the necessary deliberation to constitute 
murder. That Gabriel and his wife had conjointly taken 


378 Gabriel Conroy, 

this method to rid themselves of a former lover who 
threatened exposure, was a still later theory. Towards 
evening, when One Horse Gulch had really leisure to put 
its heads together, it was generally understood that Gabriel 
and Mrs. Conroy had put out of their way a dangerous 
and necessarily rightful claimant to that mine which Gabriel 
had pretended to discover. This opinion was for f,ome 
time—say two hours—the favourite one, agreeing as it did 
with the popular opinion of Gabriel’s inability to discover 
a mine himself, and was only modified by another theory 
that Victor was not the real claimant, but a dangerous 
witness that the Conroys had found it necessary to dispose 
of. And when, possibly from some unguarded expression 
of Lawyer Maxwell, it was reported that Gabriel Conroy 
was an impostor under an assumed name, all further specu¬ 
lation was deemed unnecessary. The coroner’s jury brought 
in a verdict against “John Doe, alias Gabriel Conroy,” and 
One Horse Gulch added this injury of false pretence to 
other grievances complained of. One or two cases of 
horse-stealing and sluice-robbing in the neighbourhood 
were indefinitely but strongly connected with this discovery. 
If I am thu6 particular in citing these evidences of the 
various gradations of belief in the guilt of the accused, it 
is because they were peculiar to One Horse Gulch, and of 
course never obtained in more civilised communities. 

It is scarcely necessary to say that one person in One 
liorse Gulch never wavered in her opinion of Gabriel’s 
innocence, nor that that person was Mrs. Markle. That 
he was the victim of a vile conspiracy—that Mrs. Conroy 
was the real culprit, and had diabolically contrived to fasten 
the guilt upon her husband, Mrs. Markle not only believed 
herself, but absolutely contrived to make Lawyer Maxwell 
and Sal believe also. More than that, it had undoubtedly 
Ipreat power in restraining Sal’s evidence before the inquest 


Justice and the Heavens Fall. 379 

which that impulsive and sympathetic young woman per¬ 
sisted in delivering behind a black veil and in a suit of the 
deepest mourning that could be hastily improvised in One 
Horse Gulch. 

“ Miss Clark’s evidence,” said the Silveropolis Messenger^ 
“although broken by sobs and occasional expressions of 
indignation against the murderer, strongly impressed the 
jury as the natural eloquence of one connected with the 
tenderest ties to the unfortunate victim. It is said that she 
was an old acquaintance of Ramirez, who was visiting her 
in the hope of inducing her to consent to a happy termin¬ 
ation of a life-long courtship, when the dastard hand of the 
murderer changed the bridal wreath to the veil of mourning. 
From expressions that dropped from the witness’s lips, al¬ 
though restrained by natural modesty, it would not be 
strange if jealousy were shown to be one of the impelling 
causes. It is said that previous to his marriage the alleged 
Gabriel Conroy was a frequent visitor at the house of Miss 
Clark.” 

I venture to quote this extract not so much for its sug¬ 
gestion of a still later theory in the last sentence, as for its 
poetical elegance, and as an offset to the ruder record of 
the One Horse Gulch Banner^ which, I grieve to say, was 
as follows :— 

“ Sal was no 'slouch of a witness. Rigged out in ten yards of Briggs’ 
b‘st black glazed muslin, and with a lot of black mosquito netting round 
her head, she pranced round the stand like a skittish hearse horse in fly¬ 
time. If Sal calculates to go into mourning for every man she has to 
iling hash to, we’d recommend her to buy up Briggs’ stock and take 
»ne of Pat Hoolan's carriages for the season. There is a strong feeling 
among men whose heads are level, that this Minstrel Variety Perfor¬ 
mance is a bluff of the Messenger to keep from the public the real 
motives of the murder, which it is pretty generally believed concerns 
some folks a little higher-toned than Sal. We mention no nanjes, but 
we would like to know what the Editor of the Messenger was doing in 


380 Gabriel Conroy, 

the counting-room of one of Pete Dumphy’s emissaries at ten o’clock 
last evening. Looking up his bank account, eh ? What’s the size of 
the figures to-day ? You hear us I ” 

At one o’clock that morning the Editor of the Messenger 
fired at the Editor of the Bamier and missed him. At 
half-past one two men were wounded by pistol shots in a 
difficulty at Briggs’ warehouse—cause not stated. At nine 
o’clock half a dozen men lounged down the main street 
and ascended the upper loft of Briggs’ warehouse. In ten 
or fifteen minutes a dozen more from different saloons in 
the town lojunged as indifferently in the direction of Briggs’, 
until at half-past nine the assemblage in the loft numbered 
fifty men. During this interval a smaller party had gathered, 
apparently as accidentally and indefinitely as to purpose, on 
the steps of the little two-story brick Court House in which 
the prisoner was confined. At ten o’clock a horse was furi¬ 
ously ridden into town, and dropped exhausted at the out¬ 
skirts. A few moments later a man hurriedly crossed the plaza 
toward the Court House. It was Mr. Jack Hamlin. But the 
Three Voices had preceded him, and from the steps of the 
Court House were already uttering the popular mandate. 

It was addressed to a single man. A man who, deserted 
by his posse^ and abandoned by his friends, had for the last 
twelve hours sat beside his charge, tireless, watchful, defiant, 
and resolute—Joe Hall, the Sheriff of Calaveras ! He had 
been waiting for this summons, behind barricaded doors, 
with pistols in his belt, and no hope in his heart; a man of 
limited ideas and restricted resources, constant only to one 
intent—that of dying behind those bars, in defence of that 
legal trust, which his office and an extra fifty votes at the 
election only two months before had put into his hands. 
It had perplexed him for a moment that he heard the voices 
of some of these voters below him clamouring against him, 
but above their feebler pipe always rose another mandatory 


Justice and the Heavens Fall. 381 

Bentence, “ We command you to take and safely keep the 
body of Gabriel Conroy,” and being a simple man the recollec¬ 
tion of the quaint phraseology strengthened him and cleared 
his mind. Ah me, I fear he had none of the external marks 
of a hero; as I remember him he was small, indistinctive, 
and fidgety, without the repose of strength; a man who at 
that extreme moment chewed tobacco and spat vigorously on 
file floor; who tweaked the ends of his scanty beard, paced 
the floor, and tried the locks of his pistols. Presently he 
Slopped before Gabriel and said almost fiercely— 

“You hear that—they are coming !” 

Gabriel nodded. Two hours before, when the contem¬ 
plated attack of the Vigilance Committee had been revealed 
to him, he had written a few lines to Lawyer Maxwell, 
which he entrusted to the sheriff. He had then relapsed 
into his usual tranquillity—serious, simple, and when he 
had occasion to speak, diffident and apologetic. 

“Are you going to help me?” continued Hall. 

“In course,” said Gabriel, in quiet surprise, ^^tiyou say 
so. But don’t ye do nowt ez would be gettin’ yourself into 
troubil along o’ me. I ain’t worth it. Maybe it ’ud be 
jest as square efye handed me over to them chaps outyer— 
allowin’ I was a heep o’ troubil to you—and reckonin’ 
you’d about \\Q.^your sheer o’ the keer o’ me, and kinder 
passin’ me round. But ef you do feel obligated to take 
keer o’ me, ez hevin’ promised the jedges and jury” (it is 
almost impossible to convey the gentle deprecatoriness of 
Gabriel’s voice and accent at this juncture), “why,” he 
lidded, “I’m with ye. I’m thar! You understand me !” 

He rose slowly, and with quiet but powerfully significant 
deliberation placed the chair he had been sitting on back 
against the wall. The tone and act satisfied the sheriff 
The seventy-four gunship, Gabriel Conroy, was clearing 
the decks for action. 


382 Gabriel Conroy. 

There was an ominous lull in the outcries below, and then 
the solitary lifting up of a single voice, the Potential Voice 
of the night before 1 The sheriff walked to a window in the 
hall and opened it. The besieger and besieged measured 
each other with a look. Then came the Homeric chaff:— 

“Git out o’ that, Joe Hall, and run home to your mother. 
She’s getting oneasy about ye !” 

“The h —11 you say !” responded Hall, promptly, “and 
the old woman in such a hurry she had to borry Al. 
Barker’s hat and breeches to come here ! Run home, old 
gal, and don’t parse yourself off for a man agin ! ” 

“This ain’t no bluff, Joe Hall! Why don’t ye call? 
Yer’s fifty men; the returns are agin ye, and two precincts 
yet to hear from.” (This was a double thrust, at Hall’s 
former career as a gambler, and the closeness of his late 
election vote.) 

“All right! send ’em up by express—mark ’em C. O. D.” 
(The previous speaker was the expressman.) 

“Blank you! Git!” 

“ Blank you ! Come on ! ” 

Here there was a rush at the door, the accidental dis¬ 
charge of a pistol, and the window was slammed down. 
Words ceased, deeds began. 

A few hours before, Hall had removed his prisoner from 
the uncertain tenure and accessible position of the cells 
below to the open court-room of the second floor, inacces¬ 
sible by windows, and lit by a skylight in the roof, above 
the reach of the crowd, whose massive doors were barri¬ 
caded by benches and desks. A smaller door at the side, 
easily secured, was left open for reconnoitring. The 
approach to the court-room was by a narrow stairway, 
halfway down whose length Gabriel had thrust the long 
court-room table as a barricade to the besiegers. The 
lowei outei door, secured by the sheriff after the desertion 


Justice ajid the Heavens Fall. 383 

of his underlings, soon began to show signs of weakening 
andei the vigorous battery from without. From the land¬ 
ing the two men watched it eagerly. As it slowly yielded, 
the sheriff drew back toward the side door and beckoned 
Gabriel to follow; but with a hasty sign Gabriel suddenly 
sprang forward and dropped beneath the table as the door 
with a crash fell inward, beaten from its hinges. There 
was a rush of trampling feet to the stairway, a cry of baffled 
rage over the impeding table, a sudden scramble up and 
upon it, and then, as if on its own volition, the long table 
suddenly reared itself on end, and staggering a moment 
toppled backward with its clinging human burden on the 
heads of the thronging mass below. There was a cry, a 
sudden stampede of the Philistines to the street, and 
Samson, rising to his feet, slowly walked to the side door, 
and re-entered the court-room. But at the same instant 
an agile besieger who, unnoticed, had crossed the Rubicon, 
darted from his concealment, and dashed by Gabriel into 
the room. There was a shout from the sheriff, the door 
was closed hastily, a shot, and the intruder fell. But the 
next moment he staggered to his knees, with outstretched 
hands, “ Hold up ! Fm yer to help ye ! ” 

It was Jack Hamlin 1 haggard, dusty, grimy; his gay 
feathers bedraggled, his tall hat battered, his spotless shirt 
torn open at the throat, his eyes and cheeks burning with 
fever, the blood dripping from the bullet wound in his leg, 
but still Jack Hamlin, strong and audacious. By a com¬ 
mon instinct both men dropped their weapons, ran and 
lifted him in their arms. 

“ There—shove that chair under me ! that’ll do,” said 
Hamlin, coolly, We’re evin now, Joe Hall; that shot 
wiped out old scores, even if it has crippled me, and lost 
ye my valuable aid. Dry up ! and listen to me, and then 
leave me here ! there’s but one way of escape. It’s up 


384 Gabriel Conroy. 

there! ” (he pointed to the skylight) “ the rear wall hangs 
over the Wingdam ditch and gully. Once on the roof you 
can drop over with this rope, which you must unwind from 
my body, for I’m d—d if I can do it myself. Can you 
reach the skylight ? ” 

“ There’s a step-ladder from the gallery,” said the 
sheriff, joyously, “ but won’t they see us, and be pre¬ 
pared ? ” 

“ Before they can reach the gully by going round, jou’ll 
be half a mile away in the woods. But what in blank are 
you waiting for? Go ! You can hold on here for ten 
minutes more if they attack the same point; but if they 
think of the skylight, and fetch ladders, you’re gone in ! 
Go ! ” 

There was another rush on the staircase without; the 
surging of an immense wave against the heavy folding 
doors, the blows of pick and crowbar, the gradual yielding 
of the barricade a few inches, and the splintering of 
benches by a few pistol shots fired through the springing 
crevices of the doors. And yet the sheriff hesitated. 
Suddenly Gabriel stooped down, lifted the wounded man 
to his shoulder as if he had been an infant, and beckoning 
to the sheriff started for the gallery. But he had not 
taken two steps before he staggered and lapsed heavily 
against Hall, who, in his turn, stopped and clutched the 
railing. At the same moment the thunder of the^besiegers 
seemed to increase; not only the door, but the windows 
rattled, the heavy chandelier fell with a crash, carrying a 
part of the plaster and the elaborate cornice with it, a 
shower of bricks fell through the skylight, and a cry, quite 
distinct from anything heard before, rose from without 
There was a pause in the hall, and then the sudden rush 
of feet down the staircase, and all was still again. The 
three men gazed in each other’s whitened faces. 


Justice and the Heavens Fall. 385 

** An earthquake,” said the sheriff. 

“So much the better,” said Jack, “ It gives us time- 
forward ! ” 

They reached the gallery and the little step-ladder that 
led to a door that opened upon the roof, Gabriel preced¬ 
ing with his burden. There was another rush up the stair¬ 
case without the court room, but this time there was no 
yielding in the door; the earthquake that had shaken the 
foundations and settled the walls had sealed it firmly. 

Gabriel was first to step out on the roof, carrying Jack 
Hamlin. But as he did so another thrill ran through the 
building and he dropped on his knees to save himself from 
falling, while the door closed smartly behind him. In 
another moment the shock had passed, and Gabriel, putting 
down his burden, turned to open the door for the sheriff. 
But to his alarm it did not yield to his pressure; the 
earthquake had sealed it as it had the door below, and Joe 
Hall was left a prisoner. 

It was Gabriel’s turn to hesitate and look at his com¬ 
panion. But Jack was gazing into the street below. 
Then he looked up and said, We must go on now, 
Gabriel,—for—for they've got a ladder ! ” 

Gabriel rose again to his feet and lifted the wounded 
man. The curve of the domed roof was slight; in the 
centre, on a rough cupola or base, the figure of Justice, 
fifteen feet high, rudely carved in wood, towered above 
them with drawn sword and dangling scales. Gabriel 
reached the cupola ind crouched behind it, as a shout rose 
from the street below that told he was discovered. A few 
shots were fired, one bullet imbedded itself in the naked 
blade of the Goddess, and another with cruel irony, 
shattered the equanimity of her balance. “Unwind the 
cord from me,” said Hamlin. Gabriel did so. “ Fasten 
one end to the chimney or the statue.” But the chimney 

VOL. IV. 2 B 


586 Gabriel Conroy, 

was levelled by the earthquake, and even the statue was 
trembling on its pedestal. Gabriel secured the rope to 
an iron girder of the skylight, and crawling oh the roof 
dropped it cautiously over the gable. But it was several 
feet too short—too far for a cripple to drop ! Gabriel 
crawled back to Hamlin. “You must go first,” he said, 
quietly, “I will hold the rope over the gable. You can 
trust me.” 

Without waiting for Hamlin’s reply he fastened the rope 
under his arms and half-lifted, half-dragged him to the 
gable. Then pressing his hand silently, he laid himseh 
down and lowered the wounded man safely to the ground. 
He had recovered the rope again, and crawling to the 
cupola, was about to fasten the line to the iron girder when 
something slowly rose above the level of the roof beyond 
him. The uprights of a ladder ! 

The Three Voices had got tired of waiting a reply to 
their oft-reiterated question, and had mounted the ladder 
by way of forcing an answer at the muzzles of their 
revolvers. They reached the level of the roof, one after 
another, and again propounded their inquiry. And then 
as it seemed to their awe-stricken fancy, the only figure 
there—the statue of Justice—awoke to their appeal. 
Awoke ! leaned towards them ; advanced its awful sword 
and shook its broken balance, and then toppling forward 
with one mighty impulse, came down upon them, swept 
them from the ladder, and silenced the Voices for ever 
And from behind its pedestal Gabriel arose, panting, pale, 
but triumphant. 


In Tenebris Servare Fidem. 


387 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IN TENEBRIS SERVARE FIDEM. 

Ai.though a large man, Gabriel was lithe and active, and 
dropped the intervening distance where the rope was scant, 
lightly, and without injury. Happily the falling of the 
statue was looked upon as the result of another earthquake 
shock, and its disastrous effect upon the storming party for 
awhile checked the attack. Gabriel lifted his half-fainting 
ally in his arms, and gaining the friendly shelter of the 
ditch, in ten minutes was beyond the confines of One Horse 
Gulch, and in the shadow of the pines of Conroy’s Hill. 
There were several tunnel openings only known to him. 
Luckily the first was partly screened by a fall of rock 
loosened by the earthquake from the hill above, and satis¬ 
fied that it would be unrecognised by any eye less keen 
than his own, Gabriel turned into it with his fainting 
burden. And it was high time. For the haemorrhage 
from Jack Hamlin’s wound was so great that that gentle¬ 
man, after a faint attempt to wave his battered hat above 
his dishevelled curls, suddenly succumbed, and lay as cold 
and senseless and beautiful as a carven Apollo. 

Then Gabriel stripped him, and found an ugly hole in 
his thigh that had narrowly escaped traversing the femoral 
artery, and set himself about that rude surgery which he 
had acquired by experience, and that more delicate nursing 
which was instinctive with him. He was shocked at the 
revelation of a degree of emaciation in the figure of this 
voung fellow that he had not before suspected. Gabriel 
had nursed many sick men, and here was one who clearly 
ought to be under the doctor’s hands, economising his 
Wtality as a sedentary invalid, who had shown himself to 
him hitherto only as a man of superabundant activity and 


388 Gabriel Conroy. 

animal spirits. Whence came the power that had animated 
this fragile shell? Gabriel was perplexed; he looked 
down upon his own huge frame with a new and sudden 
sense of apology and depreciation, as if it were an offence 
to this spare and bloodless Adonis. 

And then with an infinite gentleness, as of a young 
mother over her newborn babe, he stanched the blood and 
bound up the wounds of his new friend, so skilfully that he 
never winced, and with a peculiar purring accompaniment 
that lulled him to repose. Once only, as he held him in 
his arms, did he change his expression, and that was when 
a shadow and a tread—perhaps of a passing hare or 
squirrel—crossed the mouth of his cave, when he suddenly 
caught the body to his breast with the fierceness of a 
lioness interrupted with her cubs. In his own rough ex¬ 
perience he was much awed by the purple and fine linen 
of this fine gentleman’s underclothing—not knowing the 
prevailing habits of his class—and when he had occasion 
to open his bosom to listen to the faint beatings of his 
heart, he put aside with great delicacy and instinctive 
honour a fine gold chain from which depended some few 
relics and keepsakes which this scamp wore. But one was 
a photograph, set in an open locket, that he could not fail 
to see, and that at once held him breathless above it. It 
was the exact outline and features of his sister Grace, but 
with a strange shadow over that complexion which he 
remembered well as beautiful, that struck him with super¬ 
stitious awe. He scanned it again eagerly. “ Maybe it 
A^as a dark day when she sot! ” he murmured softly to 
himself; “ maybe it’s the light in this yer tunnel; maybe 
the heal o’ this poor chap’s buzzum hez kinder turned it. 
It ain’t measles, fur she hed ’em along o’ Oily.” He 
paused and looked at the unconscious man before him, as 
if trying to connect him with the past. “No,” he said 


In Tenebris Servare Fidem. 389 

simply, with a resigned sigh, “ it’s agin reason ! She never 
knowed him ! It’s only my foolishness, and my thinkin* 
and thinkin’ o’ her so much ! It’s another gal, and none 
o* your business, Gabe, and you a’ prying inter another 
man’s secrets, and takin’ advantage of him when he’s 
down.” He hurriedly replaced it in his companion’s 
bosom, and closed the collar of his shirt, as Jack’s lips 
moved. ** Pete! ” he called, feebly. 

It’s his pardner, maybe, he’s callin’ on,” said Gabriel 
to himself; then aloud, with the usual, comforting pro¬ 
fessional assent, “ In course, Pete, surely ! He’s coming, 
right off—he’ll be yer afore you know it.’’ 

“ Pete,” continued Jack, forcibly, “ take the mare off 
my leg, she’s breaking it! Don’t you see ? She’s stumbled ! 
D—n it, quick! I’ll be late. They’ll string him up before 
I get there ! ” 

In a moment Gabriel’s stout heart sank. If fever should 
set in—if he should become delirious, they would be lost 
Providentially, however. Jack’s aberration was only for a 
moment; he presently opened his black eyes and stared at 
Gabriel. Gabriel smiled assuringly. “ Am I dead and 
buried,” said Jack, gravely, looking around the dark vault, 
“ or have I got ’em again ? ” 

“ Ye wuz took bad fur a minit—that’s all,” said Gabriel, 
reassuringly, much relieved himself, “yer all right now !” 

Hamlin tried to rise but could not. “ That’s a lie,” he 
;aid, cheerfully. “ What’s to be done ? ” 

“Ef you’d let me hev my say, without gettin’ riled,” said 
Gabriel, apologetically, “ I’d tell ye. Look yer,” he con¬ 
tinued, persuasively, “ ye ought to hev a doctor afore thet 
wound gets inflamed; and ya ain’t goin’ to get one, bein’ 
packed round by me. Now don’t ye flare up, but harkin ! 
Allowin’ I goes out to them chaps ez is huntin’ us, and sez, 
* look yer, you kin take me, provided ye don’t bear no 


390 


Gabriel Conroy, 

malice agin n\y friend, and you sends a doctor to (etch him 
outer the tunnel.’ Don’t yer see, they can’t prove anythin 
agin ye, anyway,” continued Gabriel, with a look of the 
intensest cunning, “I’ll swear I took you pris’ner, and Joe 
won’t go back on his shot.” 

In spite of his pain and danger this proposition afforded 
Jack Hamlin apparently the largest enjoyment. “ Thank 
ye,” he said, with a smile, “ but as there’s a warrant, by this 
time, out against me for horse-stealing, I reckon I won’t put 
myself in the way of their nursing. They might forgive 
you for killing a Mexican of no great market value, but they 
ain’t goin’ to extend the right hand of fellowship to me after 
running off with their ringleader’s mustang! Particularly when 
that animal’s foundered and knee-sprung. No, sir !” 
Gabriel stared at his companion without speaking. 

“ I was late coming back with Oily to Wingdam. I had 
to swap the horse and buggy for the mare without having 
time to arrange particulars with the owner. I don’t wonder 
you’re shocked,” continued Jack, mischievously, affecting 
to misunderstand Gabriel’s silence, “ but thet’s me. Thet’s 
the kind of company you’ve got into. Procrastination and 
want of punctuality has brought me to this. Never pro¬ 
crastinate, Gabriel. Always make it a point to make it a 
ule, never to be late at the Sabbath school! ” 

“ Ef I hed owt to give ye,’’ said Gabriel, ruefully, “ a 
drop o’ whisky, or suthin’ to keep up your stren’th ! ” 

“I never touch intoxicating liquors without the consent 
of my physician,” said Jack, gravely, “ they’re too exciting ! 
I must be kept free from all excitement. Something sooth¬ 
ing, or sedentary like this,” he added, striking his leg. 
But even through his mischievous smile his face paled, and 
a spasm of pain crossed it. 

“ I reckon we’ll hev to stick yer ontil dark,” said Gabriel 
anp’ then strike acrost the gully to the woods on Conroy’i 


/ 7 i Tenebris Servare Fidem. 391 

Hill. Ye’ll be easier thar, and we’re safe ontil sun-up, 
when we kin hunt another tunnel. Thar ain’t no choice,” 
added Gabriel, apologetically. 

Jack made a grimace, and cast a glance around the walls 
of the tunnel. The luxurious scamp missed his usual com¬ 
fortable surroundings. “Well,” he assented, with a sigh, 
“ I suppose the game’s made anyway! and we’ve got to 
stick here like snails on a rock for an hour yet. Well,” he 
continued, impatiently, as Gabriel, after improvising a rude 
couch for him with some withered pine tassels gathered at 
the mouth of the tunnel, sat down beside him, “are you 
goin’ to bore me to death, now that you’ve got me here— 
sittin* there like an owl ? Why don’t you say something ? ” 

“ Say what ? ” asked Gabriel, simply. 

“ Anything ! Lie if you want to ; only talk ! ” 

“I’d like to put a question to ye, Mr. Hamlin,” said 
Gabriel, with great gentleness,—“allowin’ in course, ye’ll 
answer or no jest ez as is agree’ble to ye—reckonin’ it’s no 
business o’ mine nor pryin’ into secrets, ony jess to pass 
away the time ontil sundown. When you was tuk bad a 
spell ago, unloosin’ yer shirt thar, I got to see a pictur that 
ye hev around yer neck. I ain’t askin’ who nor which it is 
—but ony this—ez thet—thet—thet young woman dark 
complected ez that picter allows her to be ? ” 

Jack’s face had recovered its colour by the time that 
Gabriel had finished, and he answered promptly, “A d—d 
sight more so ! Why, that picture’s fair alongside of her !” 

Gabriel looked a little disappointed. Hamlin was in¬ 
stantly up in arms. “Yes, sir—and when I say that,” he 
returned, “ I mean, by thunder, that the whitest faced woman 
in the world don’t begin to be as handsome. Thar ain’t an 
angel that she couldn’t give points to and beat! That’s her 
style I It don’t,” continued Mr. Hamlin, taking the picture 
from his breast, and wiping its face with his handkerchief— 


592 Gabriel Conroy, 

“it don t begin to do her justice. What,” he asked sud¬ 
denly and aggressively, “ have you got to say about it, 
anyway ?” 

“ I reckoned it kinder favoured my sister Grace,” said 
Gabriel, submissively. “Ye didn’t know her, Mr. Hamlin? 
She was lost sence ’49—thet’s all! ” 

Mr. Hamlin measured Gabriel with a contempt that was 
delicious in its sublime audacity and unconsciousness. 
“Your sister?” he repeated, “that’s a healthy lookin’ sister 
of such a man as you—ain’t it ? Why, look at it,” roared 
Jack, thrusting the picture under Gabriel’s nose. “ Why, 
it’s—it’s a lady ! ” 

“Ye musn’t jedge Gracey by me, nor even Oily,” inter¬ 
posed Gabriel, gently, evading Mr. Hamlin’s contempt. 

But Jack was not to be appeased. “Does your sister 
sing like an angel, and talk Spanish like Governor Alvarado : 
is she connected with one of the oldest Spanish families in 
the state; does she run a rancho and thirty square leagues 
of land, and is Dolores Salvatierra her nickname? Is her 
complexion like the young bark of the madrono—the 
most beautiful thing ever seen—did every other woman 
look chalky beside her, eh ? ’’ 

“ No ! ” said Gabriel, with a sigh—“ it was just my fool¬ 
ishness, Mr. Hamlin. But seein’ that picter, kinder”- 

“ I stole it,” interrupted Jack, with the same frankness. 
“ I saw it in her parlour, on the table, and I froze to it when 
no one was looking. Lord, she wouldn’t have given it to 
me. I reckon those relatives of hers would have made it 
very lively for me if they’d suspected it. Hoss stealing ain’t 
a circumstance to this, Gabriel,” said Jack, with a reckless 
laugh. Then with equal frankness, and a picturesque free¬ 
dom of description, he related his first and only interview 
with Donna Dolores. I am glad to say that this scamp 
exaggerated, if anything, the hopelessness of his case, dwelt 



In Tenebris Servare Fidem. 


393 


but slightly on his own services, and concealed the fact that 
Donna Dolores had even thanked him. “ You can reckon 
from this the extent of my affection for that Johnny Ramirez, 
and why I just froze to you when I heard you’d dropped 
him. But come now, it’s your deal; tell us all about it. 
The boys put it up that he was hangin’ round your wife,—' 
and you went for him for all he was worth. Go on—I’m 
waiting—and,” added Jack, as a spasm of pain passed 
across his face, “ and aching to that degree that I’ll yell 
if you don’t take my mind off it.” 

But Gabriel’s face was grave and his lips silent as he bent 
over Mr. Hamlin to adjust the bandages. “Go on,” said 
Jack, darkly, “or I’ll tear off these rags and bleed to death 
before your eyes. What are you afraid of? I know all 
about your wife—you can’t tell me anything about her. 
Didn’t I spot her in Sacramento—before she married you— 
when she had this same Chilino, Ramirez, on a string. Why, 
she’s fooled him as she has you. You ain’t such a blasted 
fool as to be stuck after her still, are you ? ” and Jack raised 
himself on his elbow the more intently to regard this pos¬ 
sible transcendent idiot 

“ You was speakin’ o’ this Mexican, Ramirez,” said 
Gabriel, after a pause, fixing his now clear and untroubled 
eyes on his interlocutor. 

“Of course,” roared out Jack, impatiently, “did you 

think I was talking of-?” Here Mr. Hamlin offered a 

name that suggested the most complete and perfect antithesis 
known to modern reason. 

“ I didn’t kill him !” said Gabriel, quietly. 

“Of course not,” said Jack, promptly. “He sorter 
stumbled and fell over on your bowie-knife as you were 
pickin’ your teeth with it. But go on—how did you do it ? 
Where did you spot him? Did he make any fight? Has 
he got any sand in him ? ” 


394 


Gabriel Conroy. 

“ I tell ye I didn’t kill him ! ” 

‘‘ Who did, then ? ” screamed Jack, furious with pain and 
impatience. 

“ I don’t know—I reckon—that is-” and Gabriel 

stopped short with a wistful perplexed look at his 
companion. 

“ Perhaps, Mr. Gabriel Conroy,” said Jack, with sudden 
coolness and deliberation of speech, and a baleful light in 
his dark eyes, ‘‘ perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me 
what this means—what is your little game ? Perhaps you’ll 
kindly inform me what I’m lying here crippled for ? What 
you were doing up in the Court House, when you were 
driving those people crazy with excitement ? What you’re 
hiding here in this blank family vault for ? And maybe, if 
you’ve got time, you’ll tell me what was the reason I made 
that pleasant little trip to Sacramento ? I know I required 
the exercise, and then there was the honour of being intro¬ 
duced to your little sister—but perhaps you’ll tell me 
WHAT IT WAS FOR!” 

“Jack,” said Gabriel, leaning forward, with a sudden re¬ 
turn of his old trouble and perplexity, “ I thought she did 
it ! and thinkin’ that—when they asked me—I took it upon 
myself 1 I didn’t allow to Tingyou into this. Jack ! I thought 
—I thought—thet—it ’ud all be one—thet they’d hang me 
up afore this—I did, Jack, honest! ” 

“ And you didn’t kill Ramirez ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ And you reckoned your wife did ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And you took the thing on yourself?” 

“ I did.” 

“ You did !” 

“ I did ! ” 

“ You DID?” 



In Tenebris Servare Fidem. 395 

“ I did! ” 

Mr. Hamlin rolled over on his back, and began to whistle 

When the spring time comes, gentle Annie! as the 
only way of expressing his inordinate contempt for the 
whole proceeding. 

Gabriel slowly slid his hand under Mr. Hamlin’s helpless 
back, and under pretext of arranging his bandages, lifted 
him in his arms like a truculent babe. “ Jack,’^ he said, 
softly, “ ef thet picter of yours—that coloured woman ”- 

“Which ?” said Jack, fiercely. 

“ I mean—thet purty creature—ef she and you hed been 
married, and you’d found out accidental like that she’d 
fooled ye—more belike, Jack,” he added, hastily, “ o’ your 
own foolishness—than her little game—and ”- 

“ That woman was a lady,” interrupted Jack, savagely, 

“and your wife’s a”- But he paused, looking into 

Gabriel’s face, and then added, “ Oh git! will you ! Leave 
me alone ! ‘ I want to be an angel and with the angels 
stand.’ ” 

“ And thet woman hez a secret,” continued Gabriel, un¬ 
mindful of the interruption, “ and bein’ hounded by the 
man az knows it, up and kills him, ye wouldn’t let thet 
woman—that poor pooty creeture—suffer for it! No, Jack 1 
Ye would rather pint your own toes up to the sky than do 
it. It ain’t in ye. Jack, and it ain’t in me, so help me, God !” 

“ This is all very touching, Mr. Conroy, and does credit, 
sir, to your head and heart, and I kin feel it drawing Hall’s 
ball out of my leg while you’re talkin’,” said Jack, with his 
black eyes evading Gabriel’s and wandering to the entrance 
of the tunnel. “ What time is it, you d—d old fool, ain’t it 
dark enough yet to git outer this hole ? ” He groaned, and 
after a pause added fiercely, “ How do you know your wife 
did it?” 

Gabriel swiftly, and for him even concisely, related the 




396 Gabriel Conroy. 

events of the day from his meeting with Ramirez in the 
morning, to the time that he had stumbled upon the body 
of Victor Ramirez on his return to keep the appointment 
at his wife’s written request. 

Jack only interrupted him once to inquire why, after dis¬ 
covering the murder, he had not gone on to keep his ap¬ 
pointment. 

“ I thought it wa’n’t of no use,” said Gabriel, simply ; ** I 
didn’t want to let her see I knowed it.” 

Hamlin groaned, “ If you had you would have found her 
in the company of the man who did do it, you daddering 
old idiot I ” 

“ What man ? ” asked Gabriel. 

“ The first man you saw your wife with that morning; 
the man I ought to be helping now, instead of lyin’ here.” 

“You don’t mean to allow. Jack, ez you reckon she didrli 
do it ? ” asked Gabriel, in alarm. 

“ I do,” said Hamlin, coolly. 

“Then what did she reckon to let on by that note?" 
said Gabriel, with a sudden look of cunning. > 

“ Don’t know,” returned Jack, “like as not, being a d—d 
fool, you didn’t read it right! hand it over and let me see 

it.” 

Gabriel (hesitatingly) : “ I can’t.” 

Hamlin: “You can’t?” 

Gabriel (apologetically): “ I tore it up ! 

Hamlin (with frightful deliberation): “ You did ?" 

“ I did.” 

Jack (after a long crushing silence): “Were you ever 
under medical treatment for these spells?” 

Gabriel (with great simplicity and submission): “They 
ailers used to allow I waz queer.” 

Hamlin (after another pause): “ Has Pete Dumphy got 
anything agin you ? ” 


In Tenehls Servare Fidem. 397 

Gabriel (surprisedly): ‘‘No.” 

Hamlin (languidly) : “ It was his right hand man, his 
agent at Wingdam that started up the Vigilantes ! I heard 
him, and saw him in the crowd hounding ’em on.” 

Gabriel (simply); “ I reckon you’re out thar. Jack, 
Dumphy’s my friend. It was him that first gin me the 
money to open this yer mine. And I’m his superin¬ 
tendent !” 

Jack : “ Oh ! ” (after another pause). “ Is there any first- 
class Lunatic Asylum in this county where they would 
take in two men, one an incurable, and the other sufferin’ 
from a gunshot wound brought on by playin’ with fire¬ 
arms ? ” 

Gabriel (with a deep sigh); “Ye mus’n’t talk. Jack, ye 
must be quiet till dark.” 

Jack, dragged down by pain, and exhausted in the 
intervals of each paroxysm was quiescent. 

Gradually, the faint light that had filtered through the 
brush and ddbris before the tunnel faded quite away, and a 
damp charnel-house chill struck through the limbs of the 
two refugees, and made them shiver; the flow of water 
from the dripping walls seemed to have increased; 
Gabriel’s experienced eye had already noted that the earth¬ 
quake had apparently opened seams in the gully and 
closed up one of the leads. He carefully laid his burden 
down again, and crept to the opening. The distant hum 
of voices and occupation had ceased, the sun was setting ; 
in a few moments, calculating on the brief twilight of the 
Mountain region, it would be dark, and they might with 
safety leave their hiding-place. As he was returning, he 
noticed a slant beam of light, hitherto unobserved, crossing 
the tunnel from an old drift. Examining it more closely, 
Gabriel was amazed to find that during the earthquake a 
“cave” had taken place in the drift, possibly precipitated 


398 Gabriel Conroy. 

by the shock, disclosing the more surprising fact that there 
had been a previous slight but positive excavation on the 
hill side, above the tunnel, that antedated any record oi 
One Horse Gulch known to Gabriel. He was perfectly 
familiar with every foot of the hill side, and the existence 
of this ancient prospecting “hole” had never been even 
suspected by him. While he was still gazing at the 
opening, his foot struck against some glittering metallic 
substance. He stooped and picked up a small tin can, not 
larger than a sardine box, hermetically sealed and soldered, 
in which some inscription had been traced, but which the 
darkness of the tunnel prevented his deciphering. In the 
faint hope that it might contain something of benefit to his 
companion, Gabriel returned to the opening, and even 
ventured to step beyond its shadow. But all attempts to 
read the inscription were in vain. He opened the box 
with a sharp stone; it contained, to his great disappoint¬ 
ment, only a memorandum book and some papers. He 
swept them into the pocket of his blouse, and re-entered 
the tunnel. He had not been absent altogether more than 
five minutes, but when he reached the place where he had 
left Jack, he was gone! 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH HECTOR ARISES FROM THE DITCH. 

He Stood for a moment breathless and paralysed with 
surprise ; then he began slowly and deliberately to examine 
the tunnel step by step. When he had proceeded a 
hundred feet from the spot, to his great relief he came 
upon Jack Hamlin, sitting upright in a side drift. His 
manner was feverish and excited, and his declaration that 
he had not moved from the place where Gabriel had left 


399 


Hector arises from the Ditch. 

him at once was accepted by the latter as the aberration of 
incipient inflammation and fever. When Gabriel stated 
that it was time to go, he replied, Yes,” and added with 
such significance that his business with the murderer of 
Victor Ramirez was now over, and that he was ready to 
enter the Lunatic Asylum at once, that Gabriel with 
great precipitation lifted him in his arms and carried him 
without delay from the tunnel. Once more in the open air 
the energies of both men seemed to rally; Jack became as 
a mere feather in Gabriel’s powerful arms, and even forgot 
his querulous opposition to being treated as a helpless 
child, while Gabriel trod the familiar banks of the ditch, 
climbed the long ascent and threaded the aisles of the 
pillared pines of Reservoir Hill with the free experienced 
feet of the mountaineer. Here Gabriel knew he was safe 
until daybreak, and gathered together some withered pine 
boughs and its fragrant tassels for a couch for his helpless 
companion. And here, as he feared, fever set in ; the 
respiration of the wounded man grew quick and hurried; 
he began to talk rapidly and incoherently, of Oily, of 
Ramirez, of the beautiful girl whose picture hung upon his 
breast, of Gabriel himself, and finally of a stranger who 
was, as it seemed to him, his sole auditor, the gratuitous 
coinage of his excited fancy. Once' or twice he raised his 
voice to a shout, and then to Gabriel’s great alarm suddenly 
he began to sing, and before Gabriel could place his hand 
upon his mouth he had trolled out the verse of a popular 
ballad. The rushing river below them gurgled, beat its 
bars, and sang an accompaniment, the swaying pine sighed 
and creaked in ynison, the patient stars above them stared 
and bent breathlessly, and then to Gabriel’s exalted con¬ 
sciousness an echo of the wounded man’s song arose from 
the gulch below ! For a moment he held his breath with 
an awful mingling of joy and fear. Was he going mad too? 


400 


Gabriel Conroy. 

or was it really the voice of little Oily ? The delirious man 
beside him answered his query with another verse; the 
antiphonal response rose again from the valley. Gabriel 
hesitated no longer, but with feverish hands gathered a few 
dried twigs and pine cones into a pile, and touched a 
match to them. At the next moment they flashed a beacon 
to the sky, in another there was a crackling of the under, 
brush and the hurried onset of two figures, and before the 
slow Gabriel could recover from his astonishment. Oily 
flew, panting, to his arms, while her companion, the faithful 
Pete, sank breathlessly beside his wounded and insensible 
master. 

Oily was first to find her speech. That speech, after the 
unfailing instincts of her sex in moments of excitement, 
was the instant arraignment of somebody else as the cause 
of that excitement, and at once put the whole universe on 
the defensive. 

“Why didn’t you send word where you was? ” she said, 
impatiently, “ and wot did you have it so dark for, and up 
a steep hill, and leavin’ me alone at Wingdam, and why 
didn’t you call without singin’ ? ” 

And then Gabriel, after the fashion of his sex, ignored 
all but the present, and holding Oily in his arms, said— 

“ It’s my little girl, ain’t it ? Come to her own brother 
Gabe ! bless her ! ” 

V’hereat Mr. Hamlin, after the fashion of lunatics of any 
sex, must needs be consistent, and break out again into 
song. 

“ He’s looney. Oily, what with fever along o’ bein’ shot in 
the leg a’ savin’ me, ez izn’t worth savin’,” explained 
Gabriel, apologetically “ It was him ez did the singin’.” 

Then Oily, still following the feminine instinct, at once 
deserted conscious rectitude for indefensible error, and flew 
to Mr. Hamlin’s side. 


401 


Hector arises fj'om the Ditch. 

“Oh, where is he hurt, Pete? is he going to die?” 

And Pete, suspicious of any medication but his own, 
replied doubtfully, “ He looks bad. Miss Oily, dat’s a fac— 
but now bein’ in my ban’s, bress de Lord A’mighty, and we 
able to minister to him, we hopes fur de bess. Your 
brudder meant well, is a fair meanin’ man, miss—a toll’able 
nuss, but he ain’t got the peerfeshn’l knowledge dat Mars 
Jack in de habit o’ gettin’.” Here Pete unslung from his 
shoulders a wallet, and proceeded to extract therefrom a 
small medicine case, with the resigned air of the family 
physician, who has been called full late to remedy the 
practice of rustic empiricism. 

“ How did ye come yer ? ” asked Gabriel of OHy, when 
he had submissively transferred his wounded charge to 
Pete. “ What made ye allow I was hidin’ yer ? How did 
ye reckon to find me? but ye was alius peart and 
onhanded. Oily,” he suggested, gazing admiringly at his 
sister. 

“When I woke up at Wingdam, after Jack went away, 
who should I find, Gabe, but Lawyer Maxwell standin’ 
thar, and askin’ me a heap o’ questions. I supposed you’d 
been makin’ a fool o’ yourself agin, Gabe, and afore I let 
on thet I knowed a word, I jist made him tell me every¬ 
thin’ about you, Gabe, and it was orful! and you bein’ 
arrested fur murder, ez wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone that 
Mexican ez I never liked, Gabe, and all this comes of 
tendin’ his legs instead o’ lookin’ arter me. And all them 
questions waz about July, and whether she wasn’t your 
enemy, and if they ever waz a woman, Gabe, ez waz sweet 
on you, you know it was July ! And all thet kind o’ 
foolishness ! And then when he couldn’t get ennythin’ out 
o’ me agin July, he allowed to Pete that he must take me 
right to you, fur he said ther was talk o’ the Vigilantes 
gettin’ hold o’ ye afore the trial, and he was goin’ to get an 

VOL. IV. 2 C 


402 


Gab^'iel Conroy. 

order to take you outer the county, and he reckoned they 
wouldn’t dare to tech ye if I waz with ye, Gabe—and I’d 
like to see ’em try it! and he allowed to Pete that he must 
take me right to you ! And Pete—and thar ain't a whiter 
nigger livin’ than that ole man—said he would—reckonin’ 
you know to find Jack, as he allowed to me they’d hev to 
kill afore they got you—and he came down yer with me. 
And when we got yer—you was off—and the sheriff gone 
—and the Vigilantes—what with bein’ killed, the biggest 
o’ them, by the earthquake—what was orful, Gabe, but we 
bein’ on the road didn’t get to feel!—^jest scared outer their 

butes ! And then a Chinyman gins us your note ”- 

“My note ? ” interrupted Gabriel, “ I didn’t send ye any 
note.” 

“Then his note,” said Oily, impatiently, pointing to 
Hamlin, “sayin’ ‘You’ll find your friends on Conroy’s 
Hill! ’—don’t you see,’ Gabe ? ” continued Oily, stamping 
her foot in fuiy at her brother’s slowness of comprehension, 
“and so we came and heard Jack singin’, and a mighty 
foolish thing it was to do, and yer we are ! ” 

“ But he didn’t send any note. Oily,” persisted Gabriel 
“ Well, you awful old Gabe, what difference does it 
make who sent it ? ” continued the practical Oily ; “ here 
we are, along o’ thet note, and,” she added, feeling in her 
pocket, “ there’s the note ! ” 

She handed Gabriel a small slip of paper with the 
pencilled words, “ You’ll find your friends waiting for you 
lo-night on Conroy’s Hill” 

The handwriting was unfamiliar, but even u it were 
Jack’s, how did hs manage to send it without his know¬ 
ledge ? He had not lost sight of Jack except during the 
few moments he had reconnoitred the mouth of the tunnel, 
since they had escaped from the Court House. Gabriei 
was perplexed; in the presence of this anonymous note he 



403 


Hector arises from the Ditch. 

was confused and speechless, and could only pass his hand 
helplessly across his forehead. “ But it’s all right now, 
Gabe,” continued Oily, reassuringly, “the Vigilantes hev 
run away—what was left of them; the sheriff ain’t to be 
found nowhar ! This yer earthquake hez frightened every¬ 
body outer the idea of huntin’ ye—nobody talks of enny- 
thing but the earthquake ; they even say, Gabe—I forgot 
to tell ye—that our claim on Conroy Hill has busted, too, 
and the mine ain’t worth shucks now ! But there’s no one 
to interfere with us now, Gabe ! And we’re goin’ to get 
into a waggin that Pete hez bespoke for us at the head of 
Reservoir Gulch to-morrow mornin’ at sun-up ! And then 
Pete sez we kin git down to Stockton and ’Frisco and out 
to a place called San Antonio, that the devil himself 
wouldn’t think o’ goin’ to, and thar we kin stay, me and 
you and Jack, until this whole thing has blown over and 
Jack gits well agin and July comes back.” 

Gabriel, still holding the hand of his sister, dared not 
tell her of the suspicions of Lawyer Maxwell, regarding her 
sister-in-law’s complicity in this murder, nor Jack’s convic¬ 
tion of her infidelity, and he hesitated. But after a pause, 
he suggested with a consciousness of great discretion and 
artfulness, “ Suppose thet July doesn’t come back ?” 

“ Look yer, Gabe,” said Oily, suddenly, “ ef yer goin’ to 
be thet foolish and ridiklus agin. I’ll jess quit. Ez if thet 
woman would ever leave ye.” (Gabriel groaned inwardly.) 
“ Why, when she hears o’ this, wild bosses couldn’t keep 
her from ye. Don’t be a mule, Gabe, don’t! ” And 
Gabriel was dumb. 

Meantime, under the influence of some anodyne which 
Pete had found in his medicine chest, Mr. Hamlin became 
quiet and pretermitted his vocal obligato. Gabriel, whose 
superb physical adjustment no mental excitement could 
possibly overthrow, and whose regular habits were never 


404 Gabriel Conroy, 

broken by anxiety, nodded, even while holding Oily’s hand, 
and in due time slept, and I regret to say—writing of a 
hero—snored. After a while Oily herself succumbed to 
the drowsy coolness of the night, and wrapped in Mr. 
Hamlin’s shawl, pillowed her head upon her brother’s 
broad breast and slept too. Only Pete remained to keep 
the watch, hi being comparatively fresh and strong, and 
declaring that the condition of Mr. Hamlin required his 
constant attention. 

It was after midnight that Oily dreamed a troubled dream. 
She thought that she was riding with Mr. Hamlin to seek 
her brother, when she suddenly came upon a crowd of 
excited men who were bearing Gabriel to the gallows. She 
thought that she turned to Mr. Hamlin frantically for 
assistance, when she saw to her horror that his face had 
changed—that it was no longer he who sat beside her, but 
a strange, wild-looking, haggard man—a man whose face 
was old and pinched, but whose grey hair was discoloured 
by a faded dye that had worn away, leaving the original 
colour in patches, and the antique foppery of whose dress 
was deranged by violent exertion, and grimy with the dust 
of travel—a dandy whose strapped trousers of a bygone 
fashion were ridiculously loosened in one leg, whose high 
stock was unbuckled and awry! She awoke with a start. 
Even then her dream was so vivid that it seemed to her this 
face was actually bending over her with such a pathetic 
earnestness and inquiry that she called aloud. It was some 
minutes before Pete came to her, but as he averred, albeit 
somewhat incoherently and rubbing his eyes to show that 
he had not closed them, that he had never slept a wink, 
and that it was impossible for any stranger to have come 
upon them without his knowledge. Oily was obliged to 
accept it all as a dream ! But she did not sleep again. 
She watched the moan slowly sink behind the serrated 


405 


Hector arises from the Ditch. 

pines of Conroy’s Hill; she listened to the crackling tread 
of strange animals in the underbrush, to the far-off rattle of 
wheels on the Wingdam turnpike, until the dark outline of 
the tree trunks returned, and with the cold fires of the moun¬ 
tain sunrise the chilly tree-tops awoke to winged life, and the 
twitter of birds, while the faint mists of the river lingered 
with the paling moon like tired sentinels for the relief of 
the coming day. And then Oily awoke her companions. 
They struggled back into consciousness with characteristic 
expression, Gabriel slowly and apologetically, as of one 
who had overslept himself; Jack Hamlin violently and 
aggressively, as if some unfair advantage had been taken 
of his human weakness that it was necessary to combat at 
once. I am sorry to say that his recognition of Pete was 
accompanied by a degree of profanity and irreverence that 
was dangerous to his own physical weakness. “And you 
had to trapse down yer, sniffin’ about my tracks, you black 
and tan idiot,” continued Mr. Hamlin, raising himself on 
his arm, “and after I’d left everything all straight at 
Wingdam—and jest as I was beginning to reform and lead 
a new life ! How do. Oily? You’ll excuse my not rising. 
Come and kiss me ! If that nigger of mine has let you 
want for anything, jest tell me and I’ll discharge him. 
Well! hang it all! what are you waitin’ for ? Here it’s 
daybreak and we’ve got to get down to the head of 
Reservoir Gulch. Come, little children, the picnic is 
over !” 

Thus adjured, Gabriel rose, and lifting Mr. Hamlin in 
his arms with infinite care and tenderness, headed the 
quaint procession. Mr. Hamlin, perhaps recognising some 
absurdity in the situation, forbore exercising his querulous 
profanity on the man who held him helpless as an infant, 
tnd Oily and Pete followed slowly behind. 

Their way led down Reservoir Canon, beautiful, hopeful, 


4 o6 Gabriel Conroy. 

and bracing in the early morning air. A few birdg, 
awakened by the passing tread, started into song a 
moment, and then were still. With a cautious gentleness, 
habitual to the man, Gabriel forbore, as he strode along, 
to step upon the few woodland blossoms yet left to the dry 
summer woods. There was a strange fragrance in the air, 
the light odours liberated from a thousand nameless herbs, 
the faint melancholy spicing of dead leaves. There was, 
moreover, that sense of novelty which Nature always brings 
with the dawn in deep forests ; a fancy that during the night 
the earth had been created anew, and was fresh from the 
Maker’s hand, as yet untried by burden or tribulation, and 
guiltless of a Past And so it seemed to the little caravan 
—albeit fleeing from danger and death—that yesterday and 
its fears were far away, or had, in some unaccountable way, 
shrunk behind them in the west with the swiftly dwindling 
night Oily once or twice strayed from the trail to pick 
an opening flower or lingering berry; Pete hummed to 
himself the fragment of an old camp-meeting song. 

And so they walked on, keeping the rosy dawn and its 
promise before them. From time to time the sound of far- 
off voices came to them faintly. Slowly the light quickened; 
morning stole down the hills upon them stealthily, and at 
last the entrance of the canon became dimly outlined. Oily 
uttered a shout and pointed to a black object moving 
backward and forward before the opening. It was the 
waggon and team awaiting them. Oily’s shout was answered 
by a whistle from the driver, and they quickened their pace 
joyfully; in another moment they would be beyond the 
reach of danger. 

Suddenly a voice that seemed to start from the ground 
before them called on Gabriel to stop ! He did so uncon¬ 
sciously, drawing Hamlin closer to him with one hand, and^ 
with the other making a broad protecting sweep toward 


Hector arises from the Ditch 407 

Oily. And then a figure rose slowly from the ditch at the 
roadside and barred their passage. 

It was only a single man ! A small man bespattered 
with the slime of the ditch and torn with brambles; a man 
exhausted with fatigue and tremulous with nervous excite¬ 
ment, but still erect and threatening. A man whom Gabriel 
and Hamlin instantly recognised, even through his rags and 
exhaustion ! It was Joe Hall—the sheriff of Calaveras ! 
He held a pistol in his right hand, even while his left 
exhaustedly sought the support of a tree ! By a common 
instinct both men saw that while the hand was feeble the 
muzzle of the weapon covered them, 

“ Gabriel Conroy, I want you,” said the apparition. 

“ He’s got us lined ! Drop me,” whispered Hamlin, 
hastily, “ drop me I I’ll spoil his aim.” 

But Gabriel, by a swift, dexterous movement that seemed 
incompatible with his usual deliberation, instantly transferred 
Hamlin to his other arm, and with his burden completely 
shielded, presented his own right shoulder squarely to the 
muzzle of Hall’s revolver. 

“Gabriel Conroy, you are my prisoner,” repeated the 
voice. 

Gabriel did not move. But over his shoulder as a rest, 
dropped the long shining barrel of Jack’s own favourite 
duelling pistol, and over it glanced the bright eye of its 
crippled owner. The issue was joined I 

There was a deathlike silence. 

“Go on!’’said Jack, quietly. “Keep cool, Joe. For 
if you miss him, you’re gone in; and hit or miss Tve got 
you sure ! ” 

The barrel of Hall’s pistol wavered a moment, from 
physical weakness but not from fear. The great heart 
behind it, though broken, was undaunted. 

“ It’s all right,” said the voice fatefully. “ It’s all right, 


4o8 Gabriel Co 7 iroy. 

Jack! Ye’ll kill me, I know I But ye can’t help sayin’ 
arter all that I did my duty to Calaveras as the sheriff, and 
'specially to them twenty-five men ez elected me ovei 
Boggs ! I ain’t goin’ to let ye pass. I’ve been on this yet 
hunt, up and down this canon all night Hevin’ no possy 
I reckon I’ve got to die yer in my tracks. All right! But 
ye’ll git into thet waggon over my dead body, Jack—over 
my dead body, sure.” 

Even as he spoke these words he straightened himself to 
his full height—which was not much, I fear—and steadied 
himself by the tree, his weapon still advanced and pointing 
at Gabriel, but with such an evident and hopeless contrast 
between his determination and his evident inability to 
execute it, that his attitude impressed his audience less 
with its heroism than its half-pathetic absurdity. 

Mr. Hamlin laughed. But even then he suddenly felt 
the grasp of Gabriel relax, found himself slipping to his 
companion’s feet, and the next moment was deposited care¬ 
fully but ignominiously on the ground by Gabriel, who 
strode quietly and composedly up to the muzzle of the 
sheriff’s pistol. 

“ I am ready to go with ye, Mr. Hall,” he said, gently, 
putting the pistol aside with a certain large indifferent wave 
of the hand, “ ready to go with ye—now—at onct! But 
I’ve one little favour to ax ye. This yer pore young man, 
ez yur wounded, unbeknownst,” he said, pointing to Hamlin, 
who was writhing and gritting his teeth in helpless rage and 
fury, ‘‘ ez not to be tuk with me, nor for me ! Thar ain’t 
nothin’ to be done to him. He hez been dragged inter this 
fight. But I’m ready to go with ye now, Mr. Hall, and am 
sorry you got into the troubil along o’ me.” 


BOOK VII. 

THE BED ROCK. 


CHAPTER 1. 

IN THE TRACK OF A STORM. 

A QUARTER of an hour before the messenger of Pete? 
Dumphy had reached Poinsett’s office, Mr. Poinsett had 
received a more urgent message. A telegraph despatched 
from San Antonio had been put into his hands. Its few 
curt words, more significant to an imaginative man than 
rhetorical expression, ran as follows :— 

“ Mission Church destroyed. Father Felipe safe. Blessed Trinity 
in ruins and Dolores missing. My house spared. Come at once.— 
Maria Sepulvida." 

The following afternoon at four o’clock Arthur Poinsett 
reached San Geronimo, within fifteen miles of his destina¬ 
tion. Here the despatch was confirmed with some slight 
local exaggeration. 

“Saints and devils ! There is no longer a St. Anthony! 
The temblor has swallowed him! ” said the innkeeper, 
sententiously. “ It is the end of all ! Such is the world. 
Thou wilt find stones on stones instead of houses, Don 
Arturo. Wherefore another glass of the brandy of France, 
or the whisky of the American, as thou dost prefer. But 
of San Antonio—nothing !—Absoluiely—perfectly—truly 
nothing! ” 


410 Gabriel Conroy, 

In spite of this cheering prophecy, Mr. Poinsett did not 
wait for the slow diligence, but mounting a fleet mustang 
dashed off in quest of the missing Mission. He was some* 
what relieved at the end of an hour by the far-off flash of 
the sea, the rising of the dark green fringe of the Mission 
orchard and Encinal^ and above it the white dome of one 
of the Mission towers. But at the next moment Arthur 
checked his horse and rubbed his eyes in wonder. Where 
was the other tower ? He put spurs to his horse again and 
dashed off at another angle, and again stopped and gazed. 
There 7vas but one tower remaining. The Mission Church 
must have been destroyed ! 

Perhaps it was this discovery, perhaps it was some 
instinct stronger than this ; but when Arthur had satisfied 
himself of this fact he left the direct road, which would 
have brought him to the Mission, and diverged upon the 
open plain towards the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity. A 
fierce wind from the sea swept the broad llano and seemed 
to oppose him, step by step—a wind so persistent and 
gratuitous that it appeared to Arthur to possess a moral 
quality, and as such was to be resisted and overcome by 
his superior will. Here, at least, all was unchanged; here 
was the dead, flat monotony of land and sky. Here was 
the brittle, harsh stubble of the summer fields, sun-baked 
and wind-dried ; here were the long stretches of silence, 
from which even the harrying wind made no opposition nor 
complaint; here were the formless specks of slowly-moving 
cattle, even as he remembered them before. A momen¬ 
tary chill came over him as he recalled his own perilous 
experience on these plains, a momentary glow suffused his 
cheek as he thought of his rescue by the lovely but cold 
recluse. Again he heard the name of “ Philip ” softly 
whispered in his ears, again he felt the flood of old 
nxemories sweep over him as he rode, even as he had felt 


411 


In the Track of a Storm, 

them when he lay that day panting upon the earth. And 
yet Arthur had long since convinced his mind that he was 
mistaken in supposing that Donna Dolores had addressed 
him at that extreme moment as ‘‘ Philip; ” he had long 
since believed it was a trick of his disordered and ex¬ 
hausted brain; the conduct of Dolores towards himself, 
habitually restrained by grave courtesy, never justified him 
in directly asking the question, nor suggested any 
familiarity that might have made it probable. She had 
never alluded to it again—but had apparently forgotten it 
Not so Arthur ! He had often gone over that memorable 
scene, with a strange, tormenting pleasure that was almost 
a pain. It was the one incident of his life, for whose 
poetry he was not immediately responsible—the one 
genuine heart-thrill whose sincerity he had not afterwards 
stopped to question in his critical fashion, the one enjoy¬ 
ment that had not afterwards appeared mean and delusive. 
And now the heroine of this episode was missing, and he 
might never perhaps see her again ! And yet when he first 
heard the news he was conscious of a strange sense of 
relief—rather let me say of an awakening from a dream, 
that though delicious, had become dangerous and might 
unfit him for the practical duties of his life. Donna 
Dolores had never affected him as a real personage—at 
least the interest he felt in her was, he had always con- 
•jidered, due to her relations to some romantic condition 
of his mind, and her final disappearance from the plane of 
his mental vision was only the exit of an actress from the 
mimic stage. It seerhed only natural that she should 
disappear as mysteriously as she came. There was no 
shock even to the instincts of his ordinary humanity—it 
was no catastrophe involving loss of life or even suffering 
to the subject or spectator. 

Such at least was Mr. Poinsett’s analysis of his own 


412 Gabriel Conroy, 

mental condition on the receipt of Donna Maria’s telegram. 
It was the cool self-examination of a man who believed 
nimself cold-blooded and selfish, superior to the weakness 
of ordinary humanity, and yet was conscious of neither 
pride nor disgrace in the belief. Yet when he diverged 
from his direct road to the Mission, and turned his horse’s 
head toward the home of Donna Dolores, he was conscious 
of a new impulse and anxiety that was stronger than his 
reason. Unable as he was to resist it, he still took some 
satisfaction in believing that it was nearly akin to that 
feeling which years before had driven him back to Starva¬ 
tion Camp in quest of the survivors. Suddenly his horse 
recoiled with a bound that would have unseated a less skil¬ 
ful rider. Directly across his path stretched a chasm in 
the level plain—thirty feet broad and as many feet in 
depth, and at its bottom in undistinguishable confusion lay 
the wreck of the corral of the Blessed Trinity ! 

Except for the enormous size and depth of this fissure 
Arthur might have mistaken it for the characteristic cracks 
in the sun-burnt plain, which the long dry summer had 
wrought upon its surface, some of which were so broad as 
to task the agility of his horse. But a second glance con¬ 
vinced him of the different character of the phenomenon. 
The earth had not cracked asunder nor separated, but had 
sunk. The width of the chasm below was nearly equal to 
the width above ; the floor of this valley in miniature was 
carpeted by the same dry, brittle herbs and grasses which 
grew upon the plain around him. 

In the pre-occupation of the last hour he had forgotten 
the distance he had traversed. He had evidently ridden 
faster than he had imagined. But if this was really the 
corral, the walls of the Rancho should now be in sight at 
the base of the mountain ! He turned in that direction. 
Nothing was to be seen! Only the monotonous plain 


In the Track of a Storm. 413 

stretched before him, vast and unbroken. Between the 
chasm where he stood and the falda of the first low foot¬ 
hills neither roof nor wall nor ruin rose above the dull, 
dead level! 

An ominous chill ran through his veins, and for an 
instant the reins slipped through his relaxed fingers. Good 
God ! Could this have been what Donna Maria meant, or 
had there been a later convulsion of Nature ? He looked 
around him. The vast, far-stretching plain, desolate and 
trackless as the shining ocean beyond, took upon itself an 
awful likeness to that element! Standing on the brink of 
the revealed treachery of that yawning chasm, Arthur 
Poinsett read the fate of the Rancho. In the storm that 
had stirred the depths of this motionless level, the Rancho 
and its miserable inmates had foundered and gone down ! 

Arthur’s first impulse was to push on towards the scene 
of the disaster, in the vague hope of rendering some 
service. But the chasm before him was impassable, and 
seemed to continue to the sea beyond. Then he reflected 
that the catastrophe briefly told in Donna Maria’s despatch 
had happened twenty-four hours before, and help was per¬ 
haps useless now. He cursed the insane impulse that had 
brought him here, aimlessly and without guidance, and left 
him powerless even, to reach the object of his quest. If he 
had only gone first to the Mission, asked the advice and 
assistance of Father Felipe, or learned at least the full 
details of the disaster! He uttered an oath, rare to his 
usual calm expression, and wheeling his horse, galloped 
fiercely back towards the Mission. 

Night had deepened over the plain. With the going 
down of the sun a fog that had been stealthily encom¬ 
passing the coast-line stole with soft step across the shining 
beach, dulled its lustre, and then moved slowly and 
solemnly upon the plain, blotting out the Point of Pines, at 


f 


414 Gabriel Conroy. 

first salient witn Us sparkling Lighthouse, but now undis- 
tinguishable from the grey sea above and below, until it 
reached the galloping horse and its rider, and then, as it 
seemed to Arthur, isolated them from the rest of the woild 
—from even the pencilled outlines of the distant foot-hills, 
that it at last sponged from the blue-grey slate before him. 
At times the far-off tolling of a fog-bell came faintly to his 
ear, but all sound seemed to be blotted out by the fog; 
even the rapid fall of his horse’s hoofs was muffled and 
indistinct. By degrees the impression that he was riding in 
a dream overcame him, and was accepted by him without 
questioning or deliberation. 

It seemed to be a consistent part of the dream or vision 
when he rode—or rather as it seemed to him, was borne 
by the fog—into the outlying fields and lanes of the 
Mission. A few lights, with a nimbus of fog around them, 
made the narrow street of the town appear still more 
ghostly and unreal as he plunged through its obscurity 
towards the plaza and church. Even by the dim grey light 
he could see that one of the towers had fallen, and that the 
eastern wing and Refectory were a mass of shapless ruin. 
And what would at another time have excited his surprise 
now only struck him as a natural part of his dream,—the 
church a blaze of light and filled with thronging worship¬ 
pers ! Still possessed by his strange fancy, Arthur Poinsett 
dismounted, led his horse beneath the shed beside the 
remaining tower, and entered the building. The body and 
nave of the church were intact; the outlandish paintings 
-till hung from the walls ; the waxen effigies of the Blessed 
Virgin and the saints still leaned from their niches, yellow 
and lank, and at the high altar Father Felipe was officiating. 
As he entered a dirge broke from the choir; he saw that 
the altar and its offerings were draped in black, and in the 
first words uttered by the priest Arthur recognised the 


In the Track of a Storm. 415 

mass for the dead! The feverish impatience that had 
filled his breast and heigntened the colour of his cheeks for 
the last hour was gone. He sunk upon a bench beside 
one of the worshippers and buried his face in his hands. 
The voice of the organ rose again faintly; the quaint¬ 
voiced choir awoke, the fumes of incense filled the church, 
and the monotonous accents of the priest fell soothingly 
upon his ear, and Arthur seemed to sleep. I say seemed 
to sleep, for ten minutes later he came to himself with a 
start as if awakening from a troubled dream, with the voice 
of Padre Felipe in his ear, and the soft, caressing touch of 
Padre Felipe on his shoulder. The worshippers had dis¬ 
persed, the church was dark save a few candles still 
burning on the high altar, and for an instant he could not 
recall himself. 

“ I knew you would come, son,” said Padre Felipe; 
“ but where is she ? Did you bring her with you ? ” 

“Who?” asked Arthur, striving to recall his scattered 
senses. 

“Who? Saints preserve us, Don Arturo! She who 
sent for you—Donna Maria! Did you not get her 
message ? ” 

Arthur replied that he had only just arrived, and had at 
once hastened to the Mission. For some reason that he 
was ashamed to confess he did not say that he had tried to 
reach the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity, nor did he admit 
rhat he had forgotten for the last two hours even the exist¬ 
ence of Donna Maria. “ You were having a mass for the 
lead. Father Felipe ?—you have then suffered here ? ” 

He paused anxiously, for in his then confused state of 
mind he doubted how much of his late consciousness had 
been real or visionary. 

“Mother of God,’’ said Father Felipe, eyeing Arthur 
curiously. “ You know not then for whom was this mass f 


416 Gabriel Conroy. 

You know not that a saint has gone—that Donna Dolore* 
has at last met her reward ? 

“ I have heard—that is, Donna Maria’s despatch said— 
that she was missing,” stammered Arthur, feeling, with a 
new and unsupportable disbelief in himself, that his face 
was very pale and his voice uncertain. 

“ Missing ! ” echoed Father Felipe, with the least trace 
of impatience in his voice. “ Missing ! She will be found 
when the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity is restored—when 
the ruins of the casa^ sunk fifty feet below the surface, 
are brought again to the level of the plain. Missing, 
Don Arturo !—ah !—missing indeed !—for ever ! always, 
entirely !” 

Moved perhaps by something in Arthur’s face. Padre 
Felipe sketched in a few graphic pictures the details of the 
catastrophe already forecast by Arthur. It was a repetition 
of the story of the sunken corral. The earthquake had not 
only levelled the walls of the Rancho of the Blessed Trinity, 
but had opened a grave-like chasm fifty feet below it, and 
none had escaped to tell the tale. The faithful vaqueros 
had rushed from the trembling and undulating plain to the 
Rancho, only to see it topple into a yawning abyss that 
opened to receive it. Don Juan, Donna Dolores, the 
faithful Manuela, and Alejandro, the major domo^ with a 
dozen peons and retainers, went down with the crumbling 
walls. No one had escaped. Was it not possible to dig 
in the ruins for the bodies ? Mother of God ! had not 
Don Arturo been told that the earth at the second shock 
had closed over the sunken ruins, burying beyond mortal 
resurrection all that the Rancho contained ? They were 
digging, but hopelessly—a dozen men. They might— 
weeks hence—discover the bodies—but who knows ? 

The meek, fatalistic way that Father Felipe accepted the 
final doom of Donna Dolores exasperated Arthur^"beyond 


417 


In the Track of a Storm, 

bounds. In San Francisco a hundred men would have 
been digging night and day in the mere chance of recover¬ 
ing the buried family. Here—but Arthur remembered the 
sluggish, helpless retainers of Salvatierra, the dreadful 
fatalism which affected them on the occurrence of this mys¬ 
terious catastrophe, even as shown in the man before him, 
their accepted guide and leader—and shuddered. Could 
anything be done ? Could he not, with Dumphy’s assist¬ 
ance, procure a gang of men from San Francisco ? And 
then came the instinct of caution, always powerful with a 
nature like Arthur’s. . If these people, most concerned in 
the loss of their friends, their relations, accepted it so hope¬ 
lessly, what right had he—a-mere stranger—to interfere? 

“ But come, my son,” said Padre Felipe, laying his large 
soft hand, parentally, on Arthur’s shoulder. “ Come, come 
with me to my rooms. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin I 
have still shelter and a roof to offer you. Ah ! ” he added, 
stroking Arthur’s riding-coat, and examining critically as if 
he had been a large child, “ what have we—what is this, 
eh? You are wet with this heretic fog—eh? Your hands 
are cold, and your cheeks hot. You have fatigue! Pos¬ 
sibly—most possibly, hunger ! No! No! It is so. Come 
with me, come I ” and drawing Arthur’s passive arm through 
his own, he opened the vestry door, and led him across the 
little garden, choked with ddbris and plaster of the fallen 
tower, to a small adobe building that had been the Mission 
schoolroom. It was now hastily fitted up as Padre Felipe’s 
own private apartment and meditative cell. A bright fire 
burned in the low, oven-like hearth. Around the walls 
hung various texts illustrating the achievement of youthful 
penmanship with profound religious instruction. At the 
extremity of the room there was a small organ. Midway 
and opposite the hearth was a deep embrasured window— 
the window at which two weeks before. Mr. Jack Hamlin 
VOL. IV. 2 D 


418 Gabriel Conroy, 

had beheld the Donna Dolores. “ She spent much of hei 
time here, dear child, in the instruction of the young,” said 
Father Felipe, taking a huge pinch of snufF, and applying a 
large red bandana handkerchief to his eyes and nose. “ It 
is her best monument! Thanks to her largess—and she 
was ever free-handed, Don Arturo, to the Church—the 
foundation of the Convent of our Lady of Sorrows, her 
own patron saint, thou seest here. Thou knowest, possibly 
—most possibly as her legal adviser—that long ago, by her 
will, the whole of the Salvatierra Estate is a benefaction to 
the Holy Church, eh ? ” 

“No, I don’t!” said Arthur, suddenly, awakening with 
a glow of Protestant and heretical objection that was new 
to him, and eyeing Padre Felipe with the first glance of 
suspicion he had ever cast upon that venerable ecclesiastic. 
“ No, sir, I never heard any intimation or suggestion of the 
kind from the late Donna Dolores. On the contrary, I 
was engaged ”- 

“ Pardon—pardon me, my son,” interrupted Father 
Felipe, taking another large pinch of snuff. “ It is not 
now, scarce twenty-four hours since the dear child was 
translated—not in her masses and while her virgin strew- 
ments are not yet faded—that we will talk of this” (he 
blew his nose violently). “ No ! All in good time—thou 
shalt see ! But I have something here,” he continued, 
turning over some letters and papers in his desk. “ Some¬ 
thing for you—possibly, most possibly, more urgent It is 
a telegraphic despatch for you, to my care.” 

He handed a yellow envelope to Arthur. But Poinsett’s 
eyes were suddenly fixed upon a card which lay upon 
Padre Felipe’s table, and which the Padre’s search for 
the despatch had disclosed. Written across its face 
was the name of Colonel Culpepper Starbottle of Siski¬ 
you I “ Do you know that man ? ” asked Poinsett, holding 



In the Track of a Storm. 419 

the despatch unopened in his hand, and pointing to the 
card. 

Father Felipe took another pinch of snuff. “ Possibly— 
most possibly! A lawyer, I think—I think! Some 
business of the Church property! I have forgotten. But 
ycur despatch, Don Arturo. What says it? It does not 
take you from us ? And you—only an hour here ? ” 

Father Felipe paused, and looking up innocently, found 
the eyes of Arthur regarding him gravely. The two men 
examined each other intently. Arthur’s eyes, at last, with¬ 
drew from the clear, unshrinking glance of Padre Felipe, 
unabashed but unsatisfied. A sudden recollection of the 
thousand and one scandals against the Church, and wild 
stories of its far-reaching influence—a swift remembrance of 
the specious craft and cunning charged upon the religious 
order of which Padre Felipe was a member—scandals that 
he had hitherto laughed at as idle—flashed through his 
mind. Conscious that he was now putting himself in a 
guarded attitude before the man with whom he had always 
been free and outspoken, Arthur, after a moment’s embar¬ 
rassment that was new to him, turned for relief to the 
despatch and opened it. In an instant it drove all other 
thoughts from his mind. Its few words were from Dumphy 
and ran, characteristically, as follows : “ Gabriel Conroy 

arrested for murder of Victor Ramirez. What do you 
propose ? Answer.” 

Arthur rose to his feet. “ When does the up-stage pass 
through San Geronimo ? ” he asked, hurriedly. 

“ At midnight I ” returned Padre Felipe. “ Surely, my son, 
you do not intend ”- 

“ And it is now nine o’clock,” continued Arthur, consulting 
his watch. “ Can you procure me a fresh horse ? It is of 
the greatest importance, Father,” he added, recovering hia 
usual frankness. 



420 Gabriel Conroy. 

“ Ah ! it is urgent!—it is a matter ”- suggested the 

Padre, gently. 

‘‘ Of life and death ! ” responded Arthur gravely. 

Father Felipe rang a bell and gave some directions to a 
servant, while Arthur, seating himself at the table, wrote an 
answer to the despatch. “ I can trust you to send it as soon 
as possible to the telegraph office,” he said, handing it to 
Father Felipe. 

The Padre took it in his hand, but glanced anxiously at 
Arthur. “ And Donna Maria ? ” he said, hesitatingly; 
“ you have not seen her yet! Surely you will stop at the 
Blessed Fisherman, if only for a moment, eh ? ” 

Arthur drew his riding-coat and cape over his shoulders 
with a mischievous smile. “ I am afraid not, Father; I 
shall trust to you to explain that I was recalled suddenly, 
and that I had not time to call ; knowing the fascinations 
of your society, Father, she will not begrudge the few 
moments I have spent with you.” 

Before Father Felipe could reply the servant entered with 
the announcement that the horse was ready. 

“ Good-night, Father Felipe,” said Arthur, pressing the 
priest’s hands warmly, with every trace of his former suspi¬ 
ciousness gone. ** Good night. A thousand thanks for 
the horse. In speeding the parting guest,” he added, gravely, 
“ you have perhaps done more for the health of my soul 
than you imagine—good-night. Adios / ” 

With a light laugh in his ears, the vision of a graceful, 
erect figure, waving a salute from a phantom steed, an in¬ 
ward rush of the cold grey fog, and muffled clatter of hoofs 
over the mouldy and mossy marbles in the churchyard, 
Father Felipe parted from his guest. He uttered a char¬ 
acteristic adjuration, took a pinch of snuff, and closing the 
door, picked up the card of the gallant Colonel Starbottle 
and tossed it into the fire. 


421 


In the Track of a Storm. 

But the perplexities of the holy Father ceased not with 
the night. At an early hour in the morning, Donna Maria 
Sepulvida appeared before him at breakfast, suspicious, in¬ 
dignant, and irate. 

“ Tell me, Father Felipe,” she said, hastily, “ did the Don 
Arturo pass the night here ? ” 

“ Truly no, my daughter,” answered the Padre, cautiously. 
‘‘ He was here but- for a little ”- 

“And he went away when?” interrupted Donna Maria. 

“At nine.” 

“ And where ? ” continued Donna Maria, with a rising 
colour. 

“To San Francisco, my child \ it was business of great 
importance—but sit down, sit, little one ! This impatience 
is of the devil, daughter, you must calm yourself.” 

“ And do you know. Father Felipe, that he went away 
without coming near me ? ” continued Donna Maria, in a 
higher key, scarcely heeding her ghostly confessor. 

“ Possibly, most possibly ! But he received a despatch 
—it was of the greatest importance.’^ 

“ A despatch! ” repeated Donna Maria, scornfully* 
“ Truly—from whom ? ” 

“ I know not, my child,” said Father Felipe, gazing at the 
pink cheeks, indignant eyes, and slightly swollen eyelids 
of his visitor; “this impatience—this anger is most un¬ 
seemly.” 

“ Was it from Mr. Dumphy ? ” reiterated Donna Maria, 
stamping her little foot. 

Father Felipe drew back his chair. Through what 
unhallowed spell had this woman—once the meekest and 
fiumblest of wives—become the shrillest and most shrewest 
of widows? Was she about to revenge herself on Arthur 
for her long suffering with the late Don Jose? Fathei 
Felipe pitied Arthur now and prospectively. 



422 


Gabriel Conroy. 

“ Are you going to tell me ? ” said Donna Maria, trernu- 
lously, with alarming symptoms of hysteria. 

“ I believe it was from Mr. Dumphy,” stammered Padre 
Felipe. “ At least the answer Don Arturo gave me to send 
in reply—only these words, ‘ I will return at once ’—was 
addressed to Mr. Dumphy. But I know not what was the 
message he received.” 

You don’t ! ” said Donna Maria, rising to her feet, with 
white in her cheek, fire in her eyes, and a stridulous pitch 
in her voice. “ You don’t ! Well ! I will tell you ! It 
was the same news that this brought.” She took a tele¬ 
graphic despatch from her pocket and shook it in the face 
of Father Felipe. “There ! read it ! That was the news 
sent to him ! That was the reason why he turned and ran 
away like a coward as he is ! That was the reason why he 
never came near me, like a perjured traitor as he is! That 
is the reason why he came to you with his fastidious airs and 
his supercilious smile—and his—his—Oh, how I hate him ! 
That is why !—read it ! read it! Why don’t you read it ?” 
(She had been gesticulating with it, waving it in the air 
wildly, and evading every attempt of Father Felipe to take 
it from her.) “ Read it! Read it and see why ! Read and 
see that I am ruined !—a beggar!—a cajoled and tricked 
and deceived woman—between these two villains, Dumphy 
and Mis—ter—Arthur—Poin—sett! Ah ! Read it—or are 
you a traitor too? You and Dolores and all”- 

She crumpled the paper in her hands, threw it on the 
floor, whitened suddenly round the lips, and then followed 
the paper as suddenly, at full length, in a nervous spasm at 
Father Felipe’s feet. Father Felipe gazed, first at the paper 
and then at the rigid form of his friend. He was a man, 
an old one—with some experience of the sex, and I 
regret to say he picked up the paper first, and straightened i* 
out It was a telegraphic despatch in the following words 



The Yellow Envelope. 


423 


“ Sorry to say telegram just received that earthquake has dropped out 
lead of Conroy Mine ! Everything gone up i Can’t make furdier ad¬ 
vances or sell stock.— Dumphy.” 

Father Felipe bent over Donna Maria and raised her in 
his arms. “ Poor little one ! ” he said. “ But I don*t 
think Arthur knew it.” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE YELLOW ENVELOPE 

For once, by a cruel irony, the adverse reports regarding 
the stability of the Conroy mine were true. A few stock¬ 
holders still clung to the belief that it was a fabrication to 
depress the stock, but the fact as stated in Mr. Dumphy’s 
despatch to Donna Maria was in possession of the public. 
The stock fell to I35, to $30, to $ro—to nothing ! An 
hour after the earthquake it was known in One Horse Gulch 
that the “ lead ” had “ dropped ” suddenly, and that a veil 
of granite of incalculable thickness had been upheaved be¬ 
tween the seekers and the treasure, now lost in the myste¬ 
rious depths below. The vein was gone ! Where ?—no 
one could tell. There were various theories, more or less 
learned : there was one party who believed in the “ subsid¬ 
ence ” of the vein, another who believed in the “interposi¬ 
tion ” of the granite, but all tending to the same conclusion 
—the inaccessibility of the treasure. Science pointed with 
stony finger to the evidence of previous phenomena of the 
same character visible throughout the Gulch. But the grinr* 
“ I told you so ” of Nature was, I fear, no more satisfactory 
to the dwellers of One Horse Gulch than the ordinary 
prophetic distrust of common humanity. 

The news spread quickly and far. It overtook several 
wandering Californians in Europe, and sent them to their 


424 Gabriel Conroy. 

bankers with anxious faces; it paled the cheeks of one or 
two guardians of orphan children, frightened several widows, 
drove a confidential clerk into shameful exile, and struck 
Mr. Raynor in Boston with such consternation, that people 
for the first time suspected that he had backed his opinion 
of the resources of California with capital. Throughout 
the length and breadth of the Pacific slope it produced a 
movement of aggression which the earthquake had hitherto 
failed to cover. The probabilities of danger to life and 
limb by a recurrence of the shock had been dismissed from 
the public consideration, but this actual loss of characteristic 
property awakened the gravest anxiety. If Nature claimed 
the privilege of at any time withdrawing from that implied 
contract under which so many of Californians best citizens 
had occupied and improved the country, it was high time 
that something should be done. Thus spake an intelligent 
and unfettered press. A few old residents talked of return¬ 
ing to the East. 

During this excitement Mr. Dumphy bore himself toward 
the world generally with perfect self-confidence, and, if 
anything, an increased aggressiveness. His customers 
dared not talk of their losses before him, or exhibit a 
stoicism unequal to his own. 

“ It’s a bad business,” he would say; “ what do you 
propose ? ” And as the one latent proposition in each 
human breast was the return of the money invested, and as 
no one dared to make that proposition, Mr. Dumphy was, 
as usual, triumphant. In this frame of mind Mr. Poinsett 
found him on his return from the Mission of San Antonio, 
the next morning. 

“Bad news, I suppose, down there,” said Mr. Dumphy, 
briskly; “ and I reckon the widow, though she has bee^ 
luckier than her neighbours, don’t feel particularly lively 
eh ? Pm devilish sorry for you, Poinsett, though, as a 


The Yellow Envelope, 425 

man, you can see that the investment was a good one. 
But you can’t make a woman understand business. Eh ? 
Well, the Rancho’s worth double the mortgage, I reckon. 
Eh ? Ugly, ain’t she—of course! Said she’d been 
swindled ? That’s like a woman ! You and me know ’em! 
fch, Poinsett ? ” Mr. Dumphy emitted his characteristic 
bark, and winked at his visitor. 

Arthur looked up in unaffected surprise. “ If you mean 
Mrs. Sepulvida,” he said, coldly, “ I haven’t seen her. I 
was on my way there when your telegram recalled me. I 
had some business with Padre Felipe.” 

‘‘You don’t know then that the Conroy mine has gone 
up with the earthquake, eh ? Lead dropped out—eh ? and 
the widow’s fifty-six thousand ? ”—here Mr. Dumphy 
snapped his finger and thumb, to illustrate the lame and 
impotent conclusion of Donna Maria’s investment—“ don’t 
you know that?” 

“ No,” said Arthur, with perfect indifference and a 
languid abstraction that awed Mr. Dumphy more than 
anxiety; “no, I don’t. But I imagine that isn’t the 
reason you telegraphed me.” 

“No,” returned Dumphy, still eyeing Poinsett keenly for 
a possible clue to this singular and unheard-of apathy to 
the condition of the fortune of the woman his visitor was 
about to marry. “ No—of course ! ” 

“Well!” said Arthur, with that dangerous quiet which 
was the only outward sign of interest and determination in 
his nature. “ I’m going up to One Horse Gulch to offer 
my services as counsel to Gabriel Conroy. Now for the 
details of this murder, which, by the way, I don’t believe 
Gabriel committed, unless he’s another man than the one 
I knew 1 After that you can tell me your business with 
me, for I don’t suppose you telegraphed to me on his 
account solely. Of course, at first you felt it was to your 


426 Gabriel Conroy, 

interest to get him and his wife out of the way, now tnai 
Ramirez is gone. But now, if you please, let me know 
\n\\. 2X you know about this murder.” 

Mr. Dumphy thus commanded, and completely under 
the influence of Arthur’s quiet will, briefly recounted the 
particulars already known to the reader, of which he had 
been kept informed by telegraph. 

“ He’s been recaptured,” added Dumphy, “ I learn by 
a later despatch; and I don’t reckon there’ll be another 
attempt to lynch him. I’ve managed that^ he continued, 
with a return of his old self-assertion. “ I’ve got some 
influence there! ” 

For the first time during the interview Arthur awoke 
from his pre-occupation, and glanced keenly at Dumphy. 
“ Of course,” he returned, coolly, “ I don’t suppose you 
such a fool as to allow the only witness you have of your 
wife’s death to be sacrificed—even if you believed that the 
impostor who was personating your wife had been charged 
with complicity in a capital crime and had fled from justice* 
You’re not such a fool as to believe that this Mrs. Conroy 
won’t try to help her husband, that she evidently loves, by 
every means in her power—that she won’t make use of any 
secret she may have that concerns you to save him and 
herself. No, Mr. Peter Dumphy,” said Arthur signifi¬ 
cantly; “no, you’re too much of a business man not to 
see that.” As he spoke he noted the alternate flushing and 
paling of Mr. Dumphy’s face, and read—I fear with the 
triumphant and instinctive consciousness of a superior 
intellect—that Mr. Dumphy had been precisely such a fool, 
and had failed! 

“ I reckon nobody will put much reliance on the evi¬ 
dence of a woman charged with a capital crime,” said Mr. 
Dumphy, with a show of confidence he was far from 
feeling. 


The Yellow Envelope, 427 

“ Suppose that she and Gabriel both swear that she 
knows your abandoned wife, for instance; suppose that 
they both swear that she and you connived to personate 
Grace Conroy for the sake of getting the title to this mine ; 
suppose that she alleges that she repented and married 
Gabriel, as she did, and suppose that they both admit the 
killing of this Ramirez—and assert that you were persecut¬ 
ing them through him, and still are; suppose that they show 
that he forged a second grant to the mine—through your 
instigation ? ” 

“It’s a lie,” interrupted Dumphy, starting to his feet; “he 
did it from jealousy.’^ 

“ Can you prove his motives ? ” said Arthur, 

“ But the grant was not in my favour—it was to some old 
Californian down in the Mission of San Antonio. I can 
prove that,” said Dumphy, excitedly. 

“ Suppose you can ? Nobody imagines you so indiscreet 
as to have had another grant conveyed ioyou directly, while 
you were negotiating with Gabriel for his. Don’t be foolish \ 
I know you had nothing to do with the forged grant. 1 
am only suggesting how you have laid yourself open to the 
charges of a woman of whom you are likely to make an enemy, 
and might have made an ally. If you calculate to revenge 
Ramirez, consider first if you care to have it proved that he 
was a confidential agent of yours—as they will, if you don’t 
help them. Never mind whether they committed the murder. 
You are not their judge br accuser. You must help them 
for your own sake. No continued Arthur, after a pause, 
“congratulate yourself that the Vigilance Committee did not 
hang Gabriel Conroy, and that you have not to add revenge 
to the other motives of a desperate and scheming woman.” 

“ But are you satisfied that Mrs. Conroy is really the 
person who stands behind Colonel Starbottle and person 
ties my wife ? ” 


428 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ I am,” replied Arthur, positively. 

Dumphy hesitated a moment. Should he tell Arthur of 
Colonel Starbottle’s interview with him, and the delivery 
and subsequent loss of the mysterious envelope ? ” Arthur 
read his embarrassment plainly, and precipitated his de¬ 
cision with a single question. 

“ Have you had any further interview with Colonel Star 
bottle ? ” 

Thus directly adjured, Dumphy hesitated no longer, but 
at once repeated the details of his late conversation with 
Starbottle, his successful bribery of the Colonel, the delivery 
of the sealed envelope under certain conditions, and its 
mysterious disappearance. Arthur heard him through with 
quiet interest, but when Mr. Dumphy spoke of the loss of 
the envelope, he fixed his eyes on Mr. Dumphy’s with a sig¬ 
nificance that was unmistakable. 

“ You say you lost this envelope trusted to your honour! ** 
said Arthur, with slow and insulting deliberation. “ Lost 
it, without having opened it or learned its contents ? That 
was very unfortunate, Mr. Dumphy, ve-ry un-for-tu-nate ! ” 

The indignation of an honourable man at the imputation 
of some meanness foreign to his nature is weak compared 
with the anger of a rascal accused of an offence which he 
might have committed, but didn’t. Mr. Dumphy turned al¬ 
most purple ! It was so evident that he had not been guilty 
of concealing the envelope, and did not know its contents, 
that Arthur was satisfied. 

“ He denied any personal knowledge of Mrs. Conroy in 
this affair ? ” queried Arthur. 

“Entirely! He gave me to understand that his instruc¬ 
tions were received from another party unknown to me,” said 
Dumphy. “ Look yer, Poinsett—you’re wrong! I don’t 
believe it is that woman.” 

\rthur shook his head. “No one else possesses the in 


The Yellow Envelope. 429 

formation necessary to blackmail you. No one else has a 
motive in doing it” 

The door opened to a clerk bearing a card. Mr. 
Dumphy took it impatiently and read aloud, “ Colonel 
Starbottle of Siskiyou ! ” He then turned an anxious face 
to Poinsett 

“Good,” said that gentleman, quietly; “admit him.” As 
the clerk disappeared, Arthur turned to Dumphy, “ I sup¬ 
pose it was to meet this man you sent for me ?” 

“ Yes,” returned Dumphy, with a return of his old 
brusqueness. 

“ Then hold your tongue, and leave everything to me.'' 

The door opened as he spoke to Colonel Starbottle’s 
frilled shirt and expanding bosom, followed at a respectful 
interval by the gallant Colonel himself. He was evidently 
surprised by the appearance of Mr. Dumphy’s guest, but by 
no means dashed in his usual chivalrous port and bearing. 
“ My legal adviser, Mr. Poinsett,” said Dumphy, introduc¬ 
ing Arthur briefly. 

The gallant Colonel bowed stiffly, while Arthur, with a 
smile of fascinating courtesy and deference that astonished 
Dumphy in proportion as it evidently flattered and gratified 
Colonel Starbottle, stepped forward and extended his hand. 
“ As a younger member of the profession I can hardly claim 
the attention of one so experienced as Colonel Starbottle, 
but as the friend of poor Henry Beeswinger, I can venture 
to take the hand of the man who so gallantly stood by him 
as his second, two years ago.” 

“ Ged, sir,” said Colonel Starbottle, absolutely empur¬ 
pling with pleasure, and exploding his handkerchief from his 
sweltering breast. “ Ged ! you—er—er—do me proud ! I 
am—er—gratified, sir, to meet any friend of—er—er— 
gentleman like Hank Beeswinger! I remember the whole 
affair, sir, as if it was yesterday. 1 do ! ” with an oath. 


430 Gabriel Conroy, 

“ Gratifying, Mr. Poinsett, to every gentleman concerned. 
Your friend, sir,—I’m proud to meet you—I am,—• 
me !—killed, sir, second fire ! Dropped like a gentleman, 

-me ! No fuss; no reporters ; no arrests. Friends 

considerate. Blank me, sir, one of the finest, d~ 
me, I may say, sir, one of the very finest—er—meetings 
in which I have—er—participated. Glad to know you, 
sir. You call to mind, sir, one of the—er—highest illustra¬ 
tions of a code of honour—that—er—er—under the pre¬ 
sent—er—degrading state of public sentiment is—er—er— 
passing away. We are drifting, sir, drifting—drifting to er 
—er—political and social condition, where the Voice of 
Honour, sir, is drowned by the Yankee watchword of Pro¬ 
duce and Trade. Trade, sir, blank me ! ” Colonel Star- 
bottle paused with a rhetorical full stop, blew his nose, and 
gazed at the ceiling with a plaintive suggestion that the 
days of chivalry had indeed passed, and that American 
institutions were indeed retrograding ; Mr. Dumphy leaned 
back in his chair in helpless irritability; Mr. Arthur Poin¬ 
sett alone retained an expression of courteous and sympa¬ 
thising attention. 

“ I am the more gratified at meeting Colonel Starbottle,” 
said Arthur, gravely, “ from the fact that my friend and 
client here, Mr. Dumphy, is at present in a condition where 
he most needs the consideration and understanding of a 
gentleman and a man of honour. A paper, which has 
been entrusted to his safe keeping and custody as a gentle¬ 
man, has disappeared since the earthquake, and it is 
believed that during the excitement of that moment it was 
lost! The paper is supposed to be intact, as it was in an 
envelope that had never been opened, and whose seals wen 
unbroken. It is a delicate matter, but I am rejoiced that 
the gentleman who .left the paper in trust is the honourable 
Colonel Starbottle, whom I know by reputation, and the 


The Yellow Envelope, 431 

gentleman who suffered the misfortune of losing it is my 
personal friend Mr. Dumphy. It enables me at once to 
proffer my services as mediator, or as Mr. Dumphy’s legal 
adviser and friend, to undertake all responsibility in the 
matter.” 

The tone and manner were so like Colonel Starbottle’s 
own, that Dumphy looked from Arthur to Colonel Star- 
bottle in hopeless amazement. The latter gentleman 
dropped his chin and fixed a pair of astonished and staring 
eyes upon Arthur. “ Do I understand—that—er-^this 
gentleman, Mr. Dumphy, has placed you in possession of 

any confidential statement—that—er ”- 

Pardon me, Colonel Starbottle,” interrupted Arthur, 
rising with dignity, “ the facts I have just stated are 
sufficient for the responsibility I assume in this case. I 
learn from my client that a sealed paper placed in his 
hands is missing. I have from him the statement that I 
am bound to believe, that it passed from his hands un¬ 
opened ; where, he knows not. This is a matter, between 
gentlemen, serious enough without further complication!” 

** And the paper and envelope are lost ? ” continued 
Colonel Starbottle, still gazing at Arthur. 

‘‘ Are lost,” returned Arthur, quietly. “ I have advised 
my friend, Mr. Dumphy, that as a man of honour, and a 
business man, he is by no means freed through this unfor¬ 
tunate accident from any promise or contract that he may 
have entered into with you concerning it. Any deposit 
as a collateral for its safe delivery which he might 
nave made, or has promised to make^ is clearly forfeited. 
This he has been waiting only for your appearance to hand 
to you.” Arthur crossed to Mr. Dumphy’s side and laid 
his hand lightly upon his shoulder, but with a certain sig¬ 
nificance of grip palpable to Mr. Dumphy, who, after 
looking into his ^^yes, took cat his cheque book. When 



432 Gabriel Conroy. 

he had filled in a duplicate of the cheque he had given 
Colonel Starbottle two days before, Arthur took it from his 
hand and touched the bell. “ As we will not burden 
Colonel Starbottle unnecessarily, your cashier’s acceptance 
of this paper will enable him to use it henceforth at his 
pleasure, and as I expect to have the pleasure of the 
Colonel’s company to my office, will you kindly have this 
done at once ? ” 

The clerk appeared, and at Mr. Poinsett’s direction, took 
the cheque from the almost passive fingers of Mr. Dumphy. 

“ Allow me to express my perfect satisfaction with—er— 
er your explanation! ” said Colonel Starbottle, extending 
one hand to Arthur, while at the same moment he grace¬ 
fully readjusted his shirt-bosom with the other. “ Trouble 
yourself no further—regarding the—er—er—paper. I trust 
it will—er—yet be found; if not, sir, I shall—er—er—” 
added the Colonel, with honourable resignation, “ hold 
myself personally responsible to my client, blank me ! ” 

“Was there no mark upon the envelope by which it 
might be known without explaining its contents?” sug¬ 
gested Arthur. 

“ None, sir, a plain yellow envelope. Stop ! ” said the 
Colonel, striking his forehead with his hand. “ Ged, sir I 
I do remember now that during our conversation I made a 

memorandum,- me, a memorandum upon the face of 

it, across it, a name, Ged, sir, the very name of the party 
you were speaking of—Gabriel Conroy ! ” 

“ You wrote the name of Gabriel Conroy upon it I 
Good ! That may lead to its identification without ex¬ 
posing its contents,” returned Arthur. “ Well, sir ? ” 

The last two words were addressed to Mr. Dumphy’s 
clerk, who had entered during the Colonel’s speech and 
stood staring alternately at him and his employer, holding 
the accepted cheque in his hand 



The Yellow Envelope. 


435 


“ Give it to the gentleman,” said Dumphy, curtly. 

The man obeyed. , Colonel Starbottle took the cheque, 
folded it, and placed it somewhere in the moral recesses of 
his breast-pocket. That done, he turned to Mr. Dumphy. 

I need not say—er—that—er—as far as my personal 
counsel and advice to my client can prevail, it will be my 
effort to prevent litigation in this—er—delicate affair. 
Should the envelope—er—er—turn up ! you will of course— 
er—send it to me, who am—er—personally responsible for 
it. Ged, sir,” continued the Colonel, “ I should be proud 
to conclude this affair, conducted as it has been on your 
side with the strictest honour, over the—er—festive-board 
—but—er—business prevents me ! I leave here in one 
hour for One Horse Gulch !” 

Both Mr. Dumphy and Poinsett involuntarily started. 

“ One Horse Gulch ? ” repeated Arthur. 

“-me ! yes ! Ged, sir, I’m retained in a murder case 

there ; the case of this man Gabriel Conroy.” 

Arthur cast a swift precautionary look at Dumphy. 
Then perhaps we may be travelling companions ? ” he 
said to Starbottle, smiling pleasantly. “ I am going there 
too. Perhaps my good fortune may bring us in friendly 

counsel You are engaged”- 

“For the prosecution,” interrupted Starbottle, slightly 
expanding his chest. “ At the request of relatives of the 
murdered man—a Spanish gentleman of—er—er—large 
and influential family connections, I shall assist the District 
Attorney, my old friend, Nelse Buckthorne ! ” 

The excitement kindled in Arthur’s eyes luckily did not 
appear in his voice. It was still pleasant to Colonel 
Starbottle’s ear, as, after a single threatening glance of 
warning at the utterly mystified and half exploding Dumphy, 
he turned gracefully toward him. “ And if, by the fortunes 
of war, we should be again on opposite sides, my dear 
VOL. IV. 2 E 




434 Gabriel Conroy. 

Colonel, I trust that our relations may be as gratifying ai 
they have been to-day. One moment! I am going your 
way. Let me beg you to take my arm a few blocks and a 
glass of wine afterwards as a stirrup-cup on our journey.” 
And with a significant glance at Dumphy, Arthur Poinsett 
slipped Colonel Starbottle’s arm deftly under his own, and 
actually marched off with that doughty warrior, a blushing, 
expanding, but not unwilling captive. 

When the door closed Mr. Dumphy resumed his speech 
and action in a single expletive. What more he might 
have said is not known, for at the same moment he caught 
sight of his clerk, who had entered hastily at the exit of the 
others, but who now stood awed and abashed by Mr. 
Dumphy’s passion. “ Dash it all! what in dash are you 
dashingly doing here, dash you ? ” 

“Sorry, sir,” said the unlucky clerk; “but overhearing 
that gentleman say there was writing on the letter that you 
lost by which it might be identified, sir—we think we’ve 
found it—that is, we know where it is ! ” 

“ How? ” said Dumphy, starting up eagerly. 

“ When the shock came that afternoon,” continued the 
clerk, “ the express bag for Sacramento and Marysville had 
just been taken out by the expressman, and was lying on 
top of the waggon. The horses started to run at the 
second shock, and the bag fell and was jammed against a 
lamp-post in front of our window, bursting open as it did 
so and spilling some letters and papers on the side-walk. 
One of our night watchmen helped the expressman pick up 
the scattered letters, and picked up among them a plain 
yellow envelope with no address but the name of Gabriel 
Conroy written in pencil across the end. Supposing it 
havl dropped from some package in the express bag, he 
put it back again in the bag. When you asked about a 
olank envelope missing from your desk, he did not connect 


Gabriel meets his Lawyer. 435 

it with the one he had picked up, for that had writing on 
it. We sent to the express office just now, and found 
that they had stamped it, and forwarded it to Conroy at 
One Horse Gulch, just as they had always done with his 
letters sent to our care. That’s the way of it. Dareiay 
it’s there by this time, in his hands, sir, all right! ” 


CHAPTER HI. 

GABRIEL MEETS HIS LAWYER. 

Gabriel’s petition on behalf of Mr. Hamlin was promptly 
granted by the sheriff. The waggon was at once put into 
requisition to convey the wounded man—albeit screaming 
and protesting—to the Grand Conroy Hotel, where, in 
company with his faithful henchman, he was left, to all 
intents a free man, and a half an hour later a demented one, 
tossing in a burning fever. 

Owing to the insecure condition of the county jail at 
One Horse Gulch, and possibly some belief in the equal 
untrustworthiness of the people, the sheriff conducted his 
prisoner, accompanied by Oily, to Wingdam. Nevertheless, 
Oily’s statement of the changed condition of public senti¬ 
ment, or rather its pre-occupation with a calamity of more 
absorbing interest, was in the main correct. The news of 
the recapture of Gabriel by his legal guardian awoke no 
excitement nor comment. More than this, there was a 
favourable feeling toward the prisoner. The action of the 
Vigilance Committee had been unsuccessful, and had ter¬ 
minated disastrously to the principal movers therein. It is 
possible that the morality of their action was involved in 
their success. Somehow the whole affair had not resulted 
to the business interests of the Gulch. The three most 
prominent lynchers were dead—and clearly in error ! The 


436 Gabriel Co 7 iroy. 

prisoner, who was still living, was possibly in the right. Vhe 
Silverpolis Messenger^ which ten days before had alluded to 
the “ noble spectacle of a free people outraged in their 
holiest instincts, appealing to the first principles of Justice 
and Order, and rallying as a single man to their support,” 
now quietly buried the victims and their motives from the 
public eye beneath the calm statement that they met thei/ 
fate “ while examining the roof of the Court House with a 
view to estimate the damage caused by the first shock of 
the earthquake.” The Banner favoured the same idea a 
little less elegantly, and suggested ironically that hereafter 
“ none but experts should be allowed to go foolin’ round 
the statue of Justice.” I trust that the intelligent reader will 
not accuse me of endeavouring to cast ridicule upon the 
general accuracy of spontaneous public emotion, nor the in¬ 
fallibility of the true democratic impulse, which (I beg to 
quote from the Messenger)^ “in the earliest ages of our history 
enabled us to resist legalised aggression, and take the reins 
of government into our own hands,” or (I now refer to the 
glowing language of the Banner), “ gave us the right to run 
the machine ourselves and boss the job.” And I trust that 
the reader will observe in this passing recognition of certain 
inconsistencies in the expression and action of these people, 
only the fidelity of a faithful chronicler, and no intent of 
churlish criticism nor moral or political admonition, which 
I here discreetly deprecate and disclaim. 

Nor was there any opposition when Gabriel, upon the 
motion of Lawyer Maxwell, was admitted to bail pending 
the action of the Grand Jury, nor any surprise when Mr. 
Dumphy’s agent and banker came forward as his bondsman 
for the sum of fifty thousand dollars. By one of those 
strange vicissitudes in the fortunes of mining speculation, 
this act by Mr. Dumphy was looked upon as an evidence ol 
his trust in the future of the unfortunate mine of which 


437 


Gabriel meets his Lawyer, 

Gabriel had been original locator and superintendent, and 
under that belief the stock rallied slightly. “ It was a 
mighty sharp move of Pete Dumphy’s bailin’ thet Gabe, 
right in face of that there ‘ dropped lead ’ in his busted-up 
mine ! Oh, you’ve got to set up all night to get any points 
to show him / ” And, to their mutual surprise, Mr. Dumphy 
found himself more awe-inspiring than ever at One Horse 
Gulch, and Gabriel found himself a free man, with a slight 
popular flavour of martyrdom about him. 

As he still persistently refused to enter again upon the 
premises which he had deeded to his wife on the day of the 
murder, temporary lodgings were found for him and Oily 
at the Grand Conroy Hotel. And here Mrs. Markle, 
although exhibiting to Lawyer Maxwell the greatest con¬ 
cern in Gabriel’s trouble, by one of those inconsistencies of 
the sex which I shall not attempt to explain, treated the 
unfortunate accused with a degree of cold reserve that was 
as grateful, I fear, to Gabriel, as it was unexpected. In¬ 
deed, I imagine that if the kind-hearted widow had known 
the real comfort and assurance that the exasperating Gabriel 
extracted from her first cold and constrained greeting, she 
would have spent less of her time in consultation with Max¬ 
well regarding his defence. But perhaps I am doing a 
large-hearted and unselfish sex a deep injustice. So I 
shall content myself with transcribing part of a dialogue 
which took place between them at the Grand Conroy. 

Mrs. Markle (loftily, and regarding the ceiling with cold 
abstraction) : “ We can’t gin ye here. Mister Conroy, the 
French style and attention ye’re kinder habitooal to in 
your own house on the Hill,, bein’ plain folks and mount¬ 
ing ways. But we know our place, and don’t reckon to pro¬ 
mise the comforts of a home ! Wot with lookin’ arter forty 
reg’lar and twenty-five transient—ef I don’t happen to see 
re much myself, Mr. Conroy, ye’ll understand. Ef ye ring 


438 Gabriel Conroy, 

thet there bell one the help will be always on hand. Yet 
lookin’ well, Mr. Conroy. And bizness, I reckon” (the 
reader will here observe a ladylike ignoring of Gabriel’s 
special trouble), “ ez about what it allers waz, though judg¬ 
ing from remarks of transients, it’s dull! ” 

Gabriel (endeavouring to conceal a large satisfaction under 
the thin glossing of conventional sentiment) : “ Don’t let 
me nor Oily put ye out a cent, Mrs. Markle—a change 
bein’ ordered by OUy’s physicians—and variety bein’, so 
to speak, the spice o’ life ! And ye’re lookin’ well, Mrs. 
Markle; that ez ” (with a sudden alarm at the danger of 
compliment), “ so to speak, ez peart and strong-handed ez 
ever! And how’s thet little Manty o’ yours gettin’ on ? 
Jist how it was thet me and Oily didn’t get to see ye before 
ez mighty queer ! Times and times ng’in” (with shameless 
mendacity) hez me and thet child bin on the p’int o’ 
coming, and suthin’ hez jest chipped in and interfered !” 

Mrs. Markle (with freezing politeness) : You do me 
proud ! I jest dropped in ez a matter o’ not bein’ able 
allers to trust to help. Good night, Mister Conroy. I 
hope I see you well! Ye kin jest” (retiring with matronly 
dignity), “ye kin jest touch onto that bell thar, if ye’re 
wantin’ anything, and help’ll come to ye 1 Good-night! ” 

Oily (appearing a moment later at the door of Gabriel’s 
room, truculent and suspicious) : “ Afore I’d^-Stand thar— 
chirpin’ with thet crockidill—and you in troubil, and not 
knowin’ wot’s gone o’ July—I’d pizen myself! ” 

Gabriel (blushing to the roots of his hair, and conscience- 
stricken to his inmost soul) : “ It’s jest passin’ the time o’ 
jay. Oily, with old friends—kinder influencin’ the public 
sentyment and the jury. Thet’s all. It’s the advice o 
Lawyer Maxwell, ez ye didn’t get to hear, I reckon,—theds 
nil!” 

But Gabriel’s experience in the Grand Conroy Hotel was 


439 


Gabriel meets his Lawyer, 

not, I fear, always as pleasant A dark-faced, large-featured 
woman, manifestly in mourning, and as manifestly an aveng¬ 
ing friend of the luckless deceased, in whose taking off 
Gabriel was supposed to be so largely instrumental, presently 
appeared at the Grand Conroy Hotel, waiting the action of 
the Grand Jury. She was accompanied by a dark-faced 
elderly gentleman, our old friend Don Pedro—she being 
none other than the unstable-waisted Manuela of Pacific 
Street—and was, I believe, in the opinion of One Horse 
Gulch, supposed to be charged with convincing and myste¬ 
rious evidence against Gabriel Conroy. The sallow-faced 
pair had a way of meeting in the corridors of the hotel and 
conversing in mysterious whispers in a tongue foreign to 
One Horse Gulch and to Oily, strongly suggestive of re¬ 
venge and concealed stilettos^ that was darkly significant 1 
Happily, however, for Gabriel, he was presently relieved 
from their gloomy espionage by the interposition of a third 
party—Sal Clark. That individual, herself in the deepest 
mourning, and representing the deceased in his holiest 
affections, it is scarcely necessary to say at once resented 
the presence of the strangers. The two women glared at 
each other at the public table, and in a chance meeting in 
the corridor of the hotel. 

“ In the name of God, what have we here in this imbecile 
and forward creature, and why is this so and after this 
fashion?” asked Manuela of Don Pedro. 

“ Of a verity, I know not,” replied Don Pedro, ** it is 
most possibly a person visited of God !—a helpless being 
of brains. Peradventure, a person filled with aguardiente 
or the whisky of the Americans. Have a care, little one, 
thou smallest Manuela ” (she weighed at least three 
hundred pounds), “ that she does thee no harm ! ” 

Meanwhile Miss Sarah Clark relieved herself to Mrs. 
Markle in quite as positive language. “Ef that black 


440 


Gabriel Conroy, 

mulattar and that dried-up old furriner reckons they're 
going to monopolise public sentyment in this yer way 
they’re mighty mistaken. Ef thar ever was a shameless 
piece et’s thet old woman—and, goodness knows, the man*s 
a poor critter enyway! Ef anybody’s goin’ to take the 
word of that woman under oath, et’s mor’n Sal Clark would 
do—that’s all! Who ez she—enyway? I never heard 
her name mentioned afore 1 ” 

And ridiculous as it may seem to the unprejudiced reader, 
this positive expression and conviction of Miss Clark, like 
all positive convictions, was not without its influence on 
the larger unimpanelled Grand Jury of One Horse Gulch, 
and, by reflection, at last on the impanelled jury itself. 

“ When you come to consider, gentlemen,” said one of 
those dangerous characters—a sagacious, far-seeing juror— 
when you come to consider that the principal witness o’ 
the prosecution and the people at the inquest don’t know 
this yer Greaser woman, and kinder throws off her testi¬ 
mony, and the prosecution don’t seem to agree, it looks 
mighty queer. And I put it to you as far-minded men, if 
it ain’t mighty queer ? And this yer Sal Clark one of our 
own people.” 

An impression at once inimical to the new mistress and 
stranger, and favourable to the accused Gabriel, instantly 
took possession of One Horse Gulch. 

Meanwhile the man who was largely responsible for this 
excitement and these conflicting opinions maintained a 
gravity and silence as indomitable and impassive as his 
alleged victim, then slumbering peacefully in the little 
cemetery on Round Hill. He conversed but little even 
with his counsel and friend. Lawyer Maxwell, and received 
with his usual submissiveness and gentle deprecatoriness 
the statement of that gentleman that Mr. Dumphy had 
already bespoken the services of one of the most prominen* 


Gabriel meets his Lawyer, 441 

lawyers of San Francisco—Mr. Arthur Poinsett—to assist 
in the defence. When Maxwell added that Mr. Poinsett 
had expressed a wish to hold his first consultation with 
Gabriel privately, the latter replied with his usual sim¬ 
plicity, “ I reckon I’ve nowt to say to him ez I hain't said 
to ye, but it’s all right! ” 

“Then I’ll expect you over to my office at eleven to¬ 
morrow?” asked Maxwell. 

“ Thet’s so,” responded Gabriel, “ though I reckon ihet 
anything you and him might fix up to be dumped onto thel 
jury would be pleasin’ and satisfactory to me.” 

At a few minutes of eleven the next morning Mr. Max¬ 
well, in accordance with a previous understanding with 
Mr. Poinsett, put on his hat and left his office in the charge 
of that gentleman that he might receive and entertain 
Gabriel in complete privacy and confidence. As Arthur 
sat there alone, fine gentleman as he was and famous in his 
profession, he was conscious of a certain degree of ner¬ 
vousness that galled his pride greatly. He was about to 
meet the man whose cherished sister six years ago he had 
stolen ! Such, at least, Arthur felt was Gabriel’s opinion. 
He had no remorse nor consciousness of guilt or wrong¬ 
doing in that act. But in looking at the fact in his pro¬ 
fessional habit of viewing both sides of a question, he made 
this allowance for the sentiment of the prosecution, and 
putting himself, in his old fashion, in the position of his 
opponent, he judged that Gabriel might consistently exhibit 
some degree of indignation at their first meeting. That 
there was, however, really any moral question involved, he 
did not believe. The girl, Grace Conroy, had gone with 
nim readily, after a careful and honourable statement of the 
facts of her situation, and Gabriel’s authority or concern 
in any subsequent sentimental complication he utterly 
deniev’ That he, Arthw r, had acted in a most honourable, 


442 


Gabriel Conroy. 

high-mindeJ, and even weakly generous fashion towards 
Grace, that he had obeyed her frivolous whims as well as 
her most reasonable demands, that he had gone back to 
Starvation Camp on a hopeless quest just to satisfy her, that 
everything had happened exactly as he had predicted, and 
that when he had returned to her he found that she had 
deserted these—these were the facts that were incon¬ 

trovertible ! Arthur was satisfied that he had been honour¬ 
able and even generous—he was quite convinced that this 
very nervousness that he now experienced, was solely the 
condition of a mind too sympathetic even with the feelings 
of an opponent in affliction. “ I must not give way to this 
absurd Quixotic sense of honour,” said this young gentle¬ 
man to himself, severely. 

Nevertheless, at exactly eleven o’clock, when the staircase 
creaked with the strong ’steady tread of the giant Gabriel, 
Arthur felt a sudden start to his pulse. There was a 
hesitating rap at the door—a rap that was so absurdly 
inconsistent with the previous tread on the staircase—as 
inconsistent as were all the mental and physical acts of 
Gabriel—that Arthur was amused and reassured. “ Come 
in,” he said, with a return of his old confidence, and the 
door opened to Gabriel, diffident and embarrassed. 

“ I was told by Lawyer Maxwell,” said Gabriel slowly, 
without raising his eyes, and only dimly cognisant of the 
slight, strong, elegant figure before him—‘‘ I was told that 
Mr. Arthur Poinsett reckoned to see me to-day at eleven 
o’clock—so I came. Be you Mr. Poinsett?” (Gabriel 
here raised his eyes)—‘‘ be you, eh ?— God A’mighty ! why, 
it’s—eh ?—why—I want to know!—it can’t be !—yes, it is 1 ” 
He stopped—the recognition was complete ! 

Arthur did not move. If he had expected an outburst 
from the injured man before him he was disappointed. 
Gabriel passed his hard palm vaguely and confusedly across 


Gabriel meets his Lawyer, 443 

his forehead and through his hair, and lifted and put back 
behind his ears two tangled locks. And then, without 
heeding Arthur’s proffered hand, yet without precipitation, 
anger, or indignation, he strode toward him, and asked 
calmly and quietly, as Arthur himself might have done, 
“ Where is Grace ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Arthur, bluntly. “ I have not 
known for years. I have never known her whereabouts, 
living or dead, since the day I left her at a logger’s house 
to return to Starvation Camp to bring help to you^ 
(Arthur could not resist italicising the pronoun, nor despis¬ 
ing himself for doing it when he saw that the full signi¬ 
ficance of his emphasis touched the man before him.) 
“ She was gone when I returned ; where, no one knew ! 1 

traced her to the Presidio, but there she had disappeared.” 

Gabriel raised his eyes to Arthur’s. The impression of 
nonchalant truthfulness which Arthur’s speech always con¬ 
veyed to his hearer, an impression that he did not pre¬ 
varicate because he was not concerned sufficiently in his 
subject, was further sustained by his calm, clear eyes. 
But Gabriel did not speak, and Arthur went on— 

She left the logger’s camp voluntarily, of her own free 
will, and doubtless for some reason that seemed sufficient 
to her. She abandoned me—if I may so express myself— 
left my care, relieved me of the responsibility I held 
towards her relatives”—he continued, with the first sug¬ 
gestion of personal apology in his tones—“ without a word 
of previous intimation. Possibly she might have got tired 
of waiting for me. I was absent two weeks. It was the 
tenth day after my departure that she left the logger’s 
hut.” 

Gabriel put his hand in his pocket and deliberately drew 
out the precious newspaper slip he had once shown to 
Oily. ‘‘Then thet thar ‘Personal’ wozent writ by you, 


*444 Gabriel Conroy. 

and thet P. A. don’t stand fur Philip Ashley ? ” asked 
Gabriel, with a hopeless dejection in his tone. 

Arthur glan’ced quickly over the paper, and smiled. 

“ I never saw this before,” he said. “ What made you 
think / did it?” he asked curiously. 

“ Because July—my wife that was—said that P, Aj 
meant you,” said Gabriel, simply. 

“ Oh ! she said so, did she ? ” said Arthur, still smiling. 

“ She did. And ef it wasn’t you, who was it? ” 

I really don’t know,” returned Arthur, carelessly j 
“possibly it might have been herself. From what I 
have heard of your wife, I think this might be one, and 
perhaps the most innocent, of her various impostures.” 

Gabriel cast down his eyes and for a moment was 
gravely silent. Then the look of stronger inquiry and 
intelligence that he had worn during the interview faded 
utterly from his face, and he began again in his old tone of 
apology. “ For answerin’ all my questions, I’m obliged to 
ye, Mr. Ashley, and it’s right good in ye to remember ol* 
times, and ef I hev often thought hard on ye, ye’ll kinder 
pass that by ez the nat’rel allowin’s of a man ez was 
worried about a sister ez hasn’t been heerd from sens she 
left with ye. And ye mustn’t think this yer meetin’ was o’ 
my seekin’. I kinder dropped in yer,” he added wearily, 
“ to see a man o’ the name o’ Poinsett. He allowed to be 
yer at eleving o’clock—mebbee it’s airly yet—mebbee I’ve 
kinder got wrong o’ the place ! ” and he glanced apolo¬ 
getically around the room. 

“ J/y name is Poinsett,” said Arthur, smiling, “ the name 
of Philip Ashley, by which you knew me, was merely the 
one I assumed when I undertook the long overland trip.” 
He said this in no tone of apology or even explanation, 
but left the impression on Gabriel’s mind that a change ol 
name, like a change of dress, was part of the outfit of a 


Gabriel meets his Lawyer, 445 

gentleman emigrant. And looking at the elegant young 
figure before him, it seemed exceedingly plausible. “ It 
was as Arthur Poinsett, the San Francisco lawyer, that I 
made this appointment with you, and it is now as your 
old friend Philip Ashley that I invite your confidence, and 
ask you to tell me frankly the whole of this miserable busi¬ 
ness. I have come to help you, Gabriel, for your own— 
for your sister’s sake. And I think I can do it! ” He 
held out his hand again, and this time not in vain ; with a 
sudden frank gesture it was taken in both of Gabriel’s, and 
Arthur felt that the greatest difficulty he had anticipated in 
his advocacy of Gabriel’s cause had been surmounted. 

“ He has told me the whole story, I think,” said Arthur, 
two hours later, when Maxwell returned and found his asso¬ 
ciate thoughtfully sitting beside the window alone. And 
I believe it. He is as innocent of this crime as you or I. 
Of that I have always been confident. How far he is 
accessory after the fact—1 know he is not accessory before 
—is another question. But his story, that to me is perfectly 
convincing, I am afraid won’t do before a jury and the 
world generally. It involves too much that is incredible, 
and damning to him secondarily if believed. We must try’ 
something else. As far as I can see, really, it seems that 
his own suggestion of a defence, as you told it to me, has 
more significance in it than the absurdity you only saw. 
We must admit the killing, and confine ourselves to show¬ 
ing excessive provocation. I know something of the public 
sentiment here, and the sympathies of the average jury, 
and if Gabriel should tell them the story he has just told 
me, they would hang him at once ! Unfortunately for him, 
the facts show a complication of property interests and 
vmpostures on the part of his wife, of which he is perfectly 
innocent, and which are not really the motive of the murder, 
but vvhich the jury would instantly accept as a sufficient 


446 Gabriel Co 7 iroy. 

motive. We must fight, understand, this very story from 
the outset; you will find it to be the theory of the prose¬ 
cution ; but if vve can keep him silent it cannot be proved 
'wcept by him. The facts are such that if he had really 
pmmitted the murder he could have defied prosecution. 
Out through his very stupidity and blind anxiety to shield 
his wife, he has absolutely fixed the guilt upon himself.” 

“ Then you don’t think that Mrs. Conroy is the culprit ? ^ 
asked Maxwell. 

“ No,” said Arthur; “ she is capable, but not culpabh 
The real murderer has never been suspected nor his pre¬ 
sence known to One Horse Gulch. But I must see him 
again, and Oily, and you must hunt up a Chinaman—one 
Ah Fe—whom Gabriel tells me brought him the note, and 
who is singularly enough missing, now that he is wanted.” 

“ But you can’t use a Chinaman’s evidence before a 
jury ? ” interrupted Maxwell. 

“Not directly; but I can find Christian Caucasians who 
would be willing to swear to the facts he supplied them 
with. I shall get at the facts in a few days—and then, my 
dear fellow,” continued Arthur, laying his hand familiarly 
and patronisingly on the shoulder of his senior, “ and then 
you and I will go to work to see how we can get rid of 

When Gabriel recounted the events of the day to Oily, 
and described his interview with Poinsett, she became 
furiously indignant. “And did that man mean to say he 
don’t know whether Gracey is livin’ or dead? And he 
pertendin’ to hev bin her bo ? ” 

“ In coorse,” explained Gabriel; “ ye disremember. Oily, 
that Gracey never hez let on to me, her own brother, whar 
she ez, and she wouldn’t be going to tell a stranger. Thar’s 
them personals as she never answered ! ” 

“ Mebbe she didn’t want to speak to him ag’in,” saw? 


What Ah Fe does not know, 447 

fiercely, with a toss of her curls. “ I’d like to know what 
he’d bin’ sayin’ to her—like his impudence. Enny how he 
ought to hev found her out, and she his sweetheart ! Why 
didn’t he go right off to the Presidio ? What did he come 
back for? Not find her, indeed! Why, Gabe, do you 
suppose as July won’t you out soon—why, I bet anythin’ 
she knows jest whar you are ” (Gabriel trembled and felt 
an inward sinking), “ and is on’y waitin’ to come forward 
to the trial. And yer you are taken in ag’in and fooled by 
these yer lawyers !—you old Gabe, you. Let me git at thet 
Philip—Ashley Poinsett—thet’s all!” 


CHAPTER IV. 

WHAT AH FE DOES NOT KNOW. 

Thus admonished by the practical-minded Oily, Gabriel 
retired precipitately to the secure fastnesses of Conroy’s 
Hill, where, over a consolatory pipe in his deserted cabin, 
he gave himself up to reflections upon the uncertainty of 
the sex and the general vagaries of womanhood. ■ At such 
times he would occasionally extend his wanderings to the 
gigantic pine tree which still towered pre-eminently above 
its fellows in ominous loneliness, and seated upon one of its 
outlying roots, would gently philosophise to himself regard¬ 
ing his condition, the vicissitudes of fortune, the awful 
prescience of Oily, and the beneficence of a Creator who 
permitted such awkward triviality and uselessness as was 
incarnate in himself to exist at all! Sometimes, following 
the impulse of habit, he would encroach abstractedly upon 
the limits of his own domain, and find himself under the 
shadow of his own fine house on the hill, from which, since 
that eventful parting with his wife, he had always rigidly 
withheld his foot. As soon as he would make this alarrning 


448 Gabriel Conroy. 

discovery, he would turn back in honourable delicacy and 
a slight sense of superstitious awe. Retreating from one 
of these involuntary incursions one day, in passing through 
an opening in a little thicket of “buckeye” near his house, 
he stumbled over a small workbasket lying in the withered 
grass, apparently mislaid or forgotten. Gabriel instantly 
recognised it as the property of his wife, and as quickly re¬ 
called the locality as one of her favourite resorts during the 
excessive mid-day heats. He hesitated and then passed on, 
and then stopped and returned again awkwardly and bash¬ 
fully. To have touched any property of his wife^s, after 
their separation, was something distasteful and impossible 
to Gabriel’s sense of honour; to leave it there the spoil of 
any passing Chinaman, or the prey of the elements, was 
equally inconsistent with a certain respect which Gabriel 
had for his wife’s weaknesses. He compromised by picking 
it up with the intention of sending it to Lawyer Maxwell, 
as his wife’s trustee. But in doing this, to Gabriel’s great 
alarm (for he would as soon have sacrificed the hand that 
held this treasure as to have exposed its contents in curiosity 
or suspicion), part of that multitudinous contents overflowed 
and fell on the ground, and he w^s obliged to pick them 
up and replace them. One of them was a baby’s shirt— 
so small it filled the great hand that grasped it. In Gabriel’s 
emigrant experience, as the frequent custodian and nurse of 
the incomplete human animal, he was somewhat familiar with 
those sacred, mummy-like enwrappings usually unknown to 
childless men, and he recognised it at once. 

He did not replace it in the basket, but, with a suffused 
cheek and an increased sense of his usual awkwardness, 
stuffed it into the pocket of his blouse. Nor did he send 
tke basket to Lawyer Maxwell, as he had intended, and in 
fact omitted any allusion to it in his usual account to Oily 
of his daily experience. For the next two days he wai 


449 


What Ah Fe docs not k7iow. 

peculiarly silent and thoughtful, and was sharply reprimanded 
by Oily for general idiocy and an, especial evasion of some 
practical duties. 

“Yer’s them lawyers hez been huntin’ ye to come over 
and examine that there Chinaman, Ah Fe, ez is jest turned 
up ag’in, and you ain’t no whar to be found; and Lawyer 
Maxwell sez it’s a most important witness. And whar ’bouts 
was ye found ? Down in the Gulch, chirpin’ and gossipin’ 
with that Arkansas family, and totin’ round Mrs. Welch’s 
baby. And you a growed man, with a fammerly of yer 
own to look after. 1 wonder ye ain’t got more sabe !— 
prancin’ round in this yer shiftless way, and you on trial, 
and accused o’ killin’ folks. Yer a high ole Gabe—rentin’ 
yerself out fur a dry nuss for nothin’! ” 

Gabriel (colouring and hastily endeavouring to awaken 
Oily’s feminine sympathies): “ It waz the powerfullest, 
smallest baby—ye oughter get to see it. Oily! ’Tain’t 
bigger nor a squirrel—on’y two weeks old yesterday ! ” 

Oily (outwardly scornful, but inwardly resolving to visit 
the phenomenon next week): “Don’t stand yawpin’here, 
but waltz down to Lawyer Maxwell and see that China¬ 
man.” 

Gabriel reached the office of Lawyer Maxwell just as 
that gentleman and Arthur Poinsett were rising from a long, 
hopeless, and unsatisfactory examination of Ah Fe. The 
lawyers had hoped to be able to establish the fact of 
Gabriel’s remoteness from the scene of the murder by some 
corroborating incident or individual that Ah Fe could 
furnish in support of the detailed narrative he had already 
given. But it did not appear that any Caucasian had been 
‘tncountered or met by Alt Fe at the time of his errand. 
And Ah Fe’s memory of the details he had already described 
was apparently beginning to be defective; it was evident 
nothing was to be gained from him even if he had been 
VOL. IV. 2 F 


4-50 Gabriel Co^iroy. 

constituted a legal witness. And then, more than all, hfi 
was becoming sullen ! 

“ We are afraid that we haven’t made much out of your 
friend, Ah Fe,” said Arthur, taking Gabriel’s hand. “You 
might try if you can revive his memory, but it looks 
doubtful.” 

Gabriel gazed at Ah Fe intently—possibly because he 
was the last person who had spoken to his missing wife. 
Ah Fe returned the gaze, discharging all expression from 
his countenance, except a slight suggestion of the habitual 
vague astonishment always seen in the face of a newborn 
infant. Perhaps this peculiar expression, reminding Gabriel 
as it did of the phenomenon in the Welch family, interested 
him. But the few vague wandering questions he put were 
met by equally vague answers. Arthur rose in some im¬ 
patience ; Lawyer Maxwell wiped away the smile that had 
been lingering around his mouth. The interview was 
ended. 

Arthur and Max^well passed down the narrow stairway 
arm in arm. Gabriel would have followed them with Ah 
Fe, but turning toward that Mongolian, he was alarmed by 
a swift spasm of expression that suddenly convulsed Ah 
Fe’s face. He winked both his eyes with the velocity of 
sheet-lightning, nodded his head with frightful rapidity, 
and snapped and apparently dislocated every finger on his 
right hand. Gabriel gazed at him in open-mouthed 
wonder. 

“ All litee !” said Ah Fe, looking intently at Gabriel. 

“ Which ? ” asked Gabriel. 

“ All litee ! You shabbee ‘ all litee ! ’ She say ‘ all litee.” 

“ Who’s sheV^ a»ked Gabriel, in sudden alarm. 

“You lifee !—shabbee?—Missee Conloy! She likee you 
•—shabbee ? Me likee you !—sliabbee ? Miss Conloy sh« 
say ‘all litee I’ You shabbee slfelliff?” 


451 


What Ah Fe does not know. 

“ Which ? ” said Gabriel. 

•^Shelliff! Man plenty chokee bad man !” 

“ Sheriff, I reckon,” suggested Gabriel, with great 
gravity. 

“Um! Shelliff. Mebbe you shabbee him bimeby. He 
chokee bad man. Much chokee. Chokee like hellee! 
lie no chokee you. No. Shabbee? She say ‘shelliff no 
chokee you.’ Shabbee ? ” 

“ I see,” said Gabriel, significantly. 

“ She say,” continued Ah Fe, with gasping swiftness, 
“she say you talkee too much. She say me talkee toe 
much. She say Maxwellee talkee too much. All talkee 
too much. She say ‘ no talkee ! ’ Shabbee ? She say ‘ ash 
up ! ’ Shabbee ? She say ‘ dly up ! ’ Shabbee ? She say 
‘ bimeby plenty talkee—bimeby all litee ! ’ Shabbee ? ” 

“ But whar ez she—whar kin I git to see her ? ” asked 
Gabriel. 

Ah Fe’s face instantly discharged itself of all expression. 
A wet sponge could not have more completely obliterated 
all pencilled outline of character or thought from his blank 
slate-coloured physiognomy than did Gabriel’s simple ques¬ 
tion. He returned his questioner’s glance with ineffable 
calmness and vacancy, patiently drew the long sleeves of 
his blouse still further over his varnished fingers, crossed 
them submissively and Orientally before him, and waited 
apparently for Gabriel to become again intelligible. 

“ Look yer,” said Gabriel, with gentle persuasiveness, “ ef 
it’s the same to ye, you’d be doin’ me a heap o’ good ef 
you’d let on whar thet July—thet Mrs. Conroy ez. Bein’ 
a min ez in his blindness bows down to wood and stun, ye 
ain’t supposed to allow fur a Christian’s feelings. But I 
put to ye ez a far-minded brethren—a true man and a man 
whatsoever his colour—that it’s a square thing fur ye to 
il^ow to me whar thet woman ez ez my relation by marriage 


452 


Gabriel Conroy. 

ez hidin ’! Allowin’ it’s one o’ my idols—I axes you as a 
brother Pagan—whar ez she ? ” 

A faint, flickering smile of pathetic abstraction and sim¬ 
plicity, as of one listening to far-off but incomprehensible 
music stole over Ah Fe’s face. Then he said kindly, gently, 
but somewhat vaguely and unsatisfactorily— 

** Me no shabbee Melican man. Me washee shirtee I 
dollah and hap dozen ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PEOPLE V. JOHN DOE a//as GABRIEL CONROY, AND 
JANE ROE a/ias JULIE CONROY. BEFORE BOOM- 
POINTER, J. 

The day of the trial was one of exacting and absorbing 
interest to One Horse Gulch. Long before ten o’clock 
tl’.e Court-room, and even the halls and corridors of the 
lately rehabilitated' Court House, were thronged with spec¬ 
tators. It is only fair to say that by this time the main 
points at issue were forgotten. It was only remembered 
that some of the first notabilities of the State had come up 
from Sacramento to attend the trial; that one of the most 
eminent lawyers in San Francisco had been engaged for 
the prisoner at a fee variously estimated from fifty to one 
hundred thousand dollars, and that the celebrated Colonel 
Starbottle of Siskiyou was to assist in the prosecution ; 
that a brisk duel of words, and it was confidently hoped, a 
later one of pistols, would grow out of this forensic en¬ 
counter ; that certain disclosures affecting men and women 
of high social standing were to be expected ; and, finally, 
that in some mysterious way a great political and sectional 
principle (C6lonel Starbottle was from the South and Mr 
Poinsett from the North) was to be evolved and upheld 


The Trial. 


453 

during the trial—these were the absorbing fascinations to 
One Horse Gulch. 

At ten o’clock Gabriel, accompanied by his counsel, 
entered the Court-room, followed by Colonel Starbottle. 
Judge Boompointer, entering at the same moment, bowed 
distantly to Arthur, and familiarly to Colonel Starbottle. 
In his otium off the bench, he had been chaffed by the 
District Attorney, and had lost large sums at play with 
Colonel Starbottle. Nevertheless he was a trifle uneasy 
under the calmly critical eyes of the famous young advo¬ 
cate from San Francisco. Arthur was too wise to exhibit 
his fastidiousness before the Court; nevertheless. Judge 
Boompointer was dimly conscious that he would on that 
occasion have preferred that the Clerk who sat below him 
had put on a cleaner shirt, and himself refrained from 
taking off his cravat and collar, as was his judicial habit 
on the Wingdam circuit. There was some slight prejudice 
on the part of the panel to this well-dressed young lawyer, 
which they were pleased to specify and define more par¬ 
ticularly as his general “ airiness.” Seeing which, Justice, 
on the bench, became more dignified, and gazed severely 
at the panel and at Arthur. 

In the selection of the jury there was some difficulty; it 
was confidently supposed that the prisoner’s counsel would 
challenge the array on the ground of the recent Vigilance 
excitement, but public opinion was disappointed when the 
examination of the defence was confined to trivial and 
apparently purposeless inquiry into the nativity of the 
several jurors. A majority of those accepted by the 
defence Avere men of Southern birth and education. 
Colonel Starbottle, who, as a representative of the peculiar 
chivalry of the South, had always adopted this plan himself, 
in cases Avhere his client was accused of assault and 
battery, or even homicide, could not in respect to his 


454 Gabriel Conroy. 

favourite traditions object to it. But when it was found 
that there were only two men of Northern extraction on the 
jury, and that not a few of them had been his own clients, 
Colonel Starbottle thought he had penetrated the theory of 
the defence. 

I regret that Colonel Starbottle’s effort, admirably charac¬ 
terised by the Banner as “ one of the most scathing and 
Junius-like gems of legal rhetoric ever known to the Cali¬ 
fornian Bar,” has not been handed down to me in extenso. 
Substantially, however, it appeared that Colonel Starbottle 
had never before found himself in “ so peculiar, so mo¬ 
mentous, so—er—delicate a position. A position, sir—er 
—er—^gentlemen, fraught with the deepest sojial, profes¬ 
sional—er—er—he should not hesitate to say, upon his 
own personal responsibility, a position of the deepest politi¬ 
cal significance! Colonel Starbottle was aware that this 
statement might be deprecated—nay, even assailed by 
some. But he did not retract that statement. Certainly 
not in the presence of that jury, in whose intelligent faces 
he saw—er—er—er—^justice—inflexible justice !—er—er— 
mingled and—er—mixed with—with chivalrous instinct, 
and suffused with the characteristic—er—er—glow of—er 
—er—! ” (I regret to add that at this supreme moment, as 
the Colonel was lightly waving away with his fat right hand 
the difficulties of rhetoric, a sepulchral voice audible behind 
the jury suggested “Robinson County whisky” as the 
origin of the phenomena the Colonel hesitated to describe. 
The judge smiled blandly and directed the deputy sheriff 
to preserve order. The deputy obeyed the mandate by 
looking over into the crowd behind the jury, and saying, in 
an audible tone, “You’d better dry up thar, Joe White, or 
git out o’ that! ” and the Colonel, undismayed, proceeded.) 
“He well understood the confidence placed by the defence 
in these gentlemen. He had reason to believe that an 


The Trial. 


455 


attempt would be made to show that this homicide was 
committed in accordance with certain—er—er—principles 
held by honourable men—that the act was retributive, and 
m defence of an invasion of domestic rights and the sanc¬ 
tity of wedlock. But he should show them its fallacy. He 
should show them that only a base pecuniary motive influ¬ 
enced the prisoner. He should show them—er—er—that 
the accused had placed himself, firstly, by his antecedent 
acts, and, secondly, by the manner of the later act, beyond 
tne sympathies of honourable men. He should show them 
a previous knowledge of certain—er—er—indiscretions on 
the part of the prisoners wife, and a condonation by the 
prisoner of those indiscretions, that effectually debarred the 
prisoner from the provisions of the code; he should show 
an inartistic, he must say, even on his own personal 
responsibility, a certain ungentlemanliness, in the manner 
of the crime that refused to clothe it with the—er—er— 
generous mantle of chivalry. The crime of which the 
prisoner was accused might have—er—er—been committed 
by a Chinaman or a nigger. Colonel Starbottle did not 
wish to be misunderstood. It was not in the presence of— 
er—Beauty—” (the Colonel paused, drew out his handker¬ 
chief, and gracefully waved it in the direction of the dusky 
Manuela and the truculent Sal—both ladies acknowledging 
the courtesy as an especial and isolated tribute, and 
exchanging glances of the bitterest hatred)—it is not, 
gentlemen, in the presence of an all-sufficient and enthral¬ 
ling sex that I would seek to disparage their influence with 
man. But I shall prove that this absorbing—er—er— 
passion, this—er—er—delicious—er—er—fatal weakness, 
that rules the warlike camp, the—er—er—stately palace, as 
well as the—er—er—cabin of the base-born churl, never 
touched the calculating soul of Gabriel Conroy! Look at 
nim, gentlemen ! Look at him, and say upon your oaths, 


456 Gabriel Conroy, 

upon your experience as men of gallantry, if he is a man 
to sacrifice himself for a woman. Look at him, and say 
truly, as men personally responsible for their opinions, if he 
is a man to place himself in a position of peril through 
the blandishments of—er—er^—Beauty, or sacrifice himself 
upon the—er—er—altar of Venus ! ” 

Every eye was turned upon Gabriel. And certainly at 
that moment he did not bear any striking resemblance to a 
sighing Amintor or a passionate Othello. His puzzled, 
serious face, which had worn a look of apologetic sadness, 
was suffused at this direct reference of the prosecution ; 
and the long, heavy lower limbs, which he had diffidently 
tucked away under his chair to reduce the elevation of his 
massive knees above the ordinary level of one of the court¬ 
room chairs, retired still further. Finding himself, during 
the Colonel’s rhetorical pause, still the centre of local 
observation, he slowly drew from his pocket a small comb, 
and began awkwardly to comb his hair, with an ineffective 
simulation of pre occupation and indifference. 

“Yes, sir,” continued the Colonel, with that lofty forensic 
severity so captivating to the spectator, “you may comb 
yer hair ” (hyar was the Colonel’s pronunciation), “ but yer 
can’t comb it so as to make this intelligent jury believe 
that it is fresh from the hands of—er—er—Delilah.” 

The Colonel then proceeded to draw an exceedingly 
poetical picture of the murdered Ramirez—“ a native, 
appealing to the sympathies of every Southern man, a 
native of the tropics, impulsive, warm, and peculiarly 
susceptible, as we all are, gentlemen, to the weaknesses of 
the heart.” The Colonel “ would not dwell further upon 
this characteristic of the deceased. There were within the 
sound of his voice, visible to the sympathising eyes of the 
\ury, two beings who had divided his heart’s holiest affec* 
♦ions—their presence was more eloquent than words. This 


The Trial. 


457 


man,” continued the Colonel, a representative of one of 
our oldest Spanish families—a family that recalled the days 
of—er—er—the Cid and Don John—this man had been 
the victim at once of the arts of Mrs. Conroy and the 
dastardly fears of Gabriel Conroy; of the wiles of the 
woman and the stealthy steel of the man.” 

“ Colonel Starbottle would show that personating the 
character and taking the name of Grace Conroy, an absent 
sister of the accused, Mrs. Conroy, then really Madame 
Devarges, sought the professional aid of the impulsive and 
generous Ramirez to establish her right to a claim then 
held by the accused—in fact, wrongfully withheld from 
his own sister, Grace Conroy. That Ramirez, believing 
implicitly in the story of Madame Devarges with the sym¬ 
pathy of an overflowing nature, gave her that aid until her 
marriage with Gabriel exposed the deceit. Colonel Star- 
bottle would not characterise the motives of such a 
marriage. It was apparent to the jury. They were intelli¬ 
gent men, and would detect the unhallowed combination 
of two confederates, under the sacrament of a holy institu¬ 
tion, to deceive the trustful Ramirez. It was a nuptial 
feast at which—er—er—Mercury presided, and not—er 
—er—Hymen. Its only issue was fraud and murder. 
Having obtained possession of the property in a common 
interest, it was necessary to remove the only witness of the 
fraud, Ramirez. The wife found a willing instrument in 
the husband. And how was the deed committed ? Openly 
and in the presence of witnesses? Did Gabriel even 
assume a virtue, and -under the pretext of an injured hus¬ 
band challenge the victim to the field of honour? No! 
No, gentlemen. Look at the murderer, and contrast his 
enormous bulk with the—ev—slight, graceful, youthful 
figure of the victim, and you will have an idea of the—er— 
er—enormity of the crime.” 


458 Gabriel Conroy, 

After this exordium came the testimony —/.<?., facts 
coloured more or less unconsciously, according to the 
honest prejudices cf the observer, his capacity to compre¬ 
hend the fact he had observed, and his disposition to give, 
his theory regarding that fact rather than the fact itself. ‘ 
And when the blind had testified to what they saw, and the 
halt had stated where they walked and ran, the prosecu¬ 
tion rested with a flush of triumph. 

They had established severally; that the deceased had 
died from the effects of a knife-wound; that Gabriel had 
previously quarrelled with him and was seen on the hill 
within a few hours of the murder; that he had absconded 
immediately after, and that his wife was still a fugitive, and 
that there was ample motive for the deed in the circum¬ 
stances surrounding the prisoner. 

Much of this was shaken on cross-examination. The 
surgeon who made the autopsy was unable to say whether 
the deceased, being consumptive, might not have died from 
consumption tha-t very night. The witness who saw 
Gabriel pushing the deceased along the road, could not 
swear positively whether the deceased were not pulling 
Gabriel instead, and the evidence of Mrs. Conroy’s 
imposture was hearsay only. Nevertheless bets were 
offered in favour of Starbottle against Poinsett—that being 
the form in which the interest of One Horse Gulch 
crystallised itself. 

When the prosecution rested, Mr. Poinsett, as counsel 
for defence, moved for the discharge of the prisoner, no 
evidence having been shown of his having had any rela¬ 
tions with or knowledge of the deceased until the day of 
the murder, and none whatever of his complicity with the 
murderess, against whom the evidence of the prosecution 
and the arguments of the learned prosecuting attorney 
were chiefly directed. 


The Trial. 


459 

Motion overruled. A sigh of relief went up from the 
spectators and the jury. That any absurd technical 
objection should estop them from that fun which as law- 
abiding citizens they had a right to expect, seemed 
oppressive and scandalous ; and when Arthur rose to open 
for the defence, it was with an instinctive consciousness 
that his audience were eyeing him as a man who had 
endeavoured to withdraw from a race. 

Ridiculous as it seemed in reason, it was enough to 
excite Arthur’s flagging interest and stimulate his com¬ 
bativeness. With ready tact he fathomed the expectation 
of the audience, and at once squarely joined issue with the 
Colonel. 

Mr. Poinsett differed from his learned friend in believing 
this case was at all momentous or peculiar. It was a 
quite common one—he was sorry to say a very common 
one—in the somewhat hasty administration of the law in 
California. He was willing to admit a peculiarity in his 
eloquent brother’s occupying the line of attack, when his 
place was as clearly at his, Mr. Poinsett’s side. He should 
overlook some irregularities in the prosecution from this 
fact, and from the natural confusion of a man possessing 
Colonel Starbottle’s quick sympathies, who found him¬ 
self arrayed against his principles. He should, however, 
relieve them from that confusion, by stating that there 
really was no principle involved beyond the common one 
of self-preservation. He was willing to admit the counsel’s 
ingenious theory that Mrs. Conroy—who was not men¬ 
tioned in the indictment, or indeed any other person not 
specified—had committed the deed for which his client was 
charged. But as they were here to try Gabriel Conroy 
only, he could not see the relevancy of the testimony to 
that fact. He should content nimself with the weakness of 
the accusation. He should not occupy their time, but 


460 Gabriel Conroy, 

should call at once to the stand the prisoner; the man 
who, the jury would remember, was now, against all legal 
precedent, actually, if not legally, placed again,in. peril of 
his life, in the very building which but a few days before 
had seen his danger and his escape. 

He should call Gabriel Conroy ! 

There was a momentary sensation in the court. Gabriel 
uplifted his huge frame slowly, and walked quietly toward 
the witness-box. His face slightly flushed under the half- 
critical, half-amused gaze of the spectators, and those by 
whom he brushed as he made his way through the crowd 
noticed that his breathing was hurried. But when he reached 
the box, his face grew more composed, and his troubled 
eyes presently concentrated their light fixedly upon Colonel 
Starbottle. Then the clerk mumbled the oath, and he took 
his seat. 

“ What is your name ? ” asked Arthur. 

“ I reckon ye mean my real name?” queried Gabriel, with 
a touch of his usual apology. 

“ Yes, certainly, your real name, sir,” replied Arthur, 1 
little impatiently. 

Colonel Starbottle pricked up his ears, and lifting his 
eyes, met Gabriel’s dull, concentrated fires full in his own. 

Gabriel then raised his eyes indifferently to the ceiling. 
*‘My real name—my genooine name—is Johnny Dumbledee, 
J-o-n-n-y, Johnny, D'-u-m-b-i-l d-e, Johnny Dumbledee!” 

There was a sudden thrill, and then a stony silence 
Arthur and Maxwell rose to their feet at the same moment. 
“ What ? ” said both those gentlemen, sharply, in one 
breath. 

“Johnny Dumbledee,” repeated Gabriel, slowly and with 
infinite deliberation; “Johnny Dumbledee ez my real name 
I hev frequent,” he added, turning around in easy con^ 
dence to the astonished Judge Boompointer, “ I hev fre« 


In Rebuttal. 


461 

quent allowed I was Gabriel Conroy—the same not being the 
truth. And the woman ez I married —her name was Grace 
Conroy, and the heap o’ lies ez thet old liar over thar” (he 
indicated the gallant Colonel Starbottle with his finger) “hea 
told passes my pile ! Thet woman, my wife ez was and ez 
—waz Grace Conroy.” (To the Colonel, gravely :) “ You 
hear me ! And the only imposture, please your Honoui 
and this yer Court, and you gentl’men, was ME 1 ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN REBUTTAL. 

The utter and complete astonishment created by Gabriel’s 
reply was so generally diffused that the equal participation 
of Gabriel’s own counsel in this surprise was unobserved. 
Maxwell would have risen again hurriedly, but Arthur laid 
his hand on his shoulder. 

“ The man has gone clean mad!—this is suicide,” 
whispered Maxwell, excitedly. “ We must get him off the 
stand. You must explain ! ” 

Hush !” said Arthur, quietly. “Not a word 1 Show 
any surprise and we’re lost!” 

In another instant all eyes were fixed upon Arthur, who 
had remained standing, outwardly calm. There was but 
one idea dominant in the audience. What revelation would 
the next question bring ? The silence became almost pain¬ 
ful as Arthur quietly and self-containedly glanced around 
the Court-room and at the jury, as if coolly measuring the 
effect of a carefully-planned dramatic sensation. Then, 
when every neck was bent forward and every ear alerti, 
Arthur turned nonchalantly yet gracefuhy to the bench. 

“We have no further questions to ask, your Honour,” he 
Raid, quietly, and sat down. 


462 Gabriel Conroy, 

The effect of this simple, natural, and perfectly consistent 
action was tremendous ! In the various triumphs of Arthur’s 
successful career, he felt that he had never achieved as uni¬ 
versal and instantaneous popularity. Gabriel was forgotten j 
the man who had worked up this sensation—a sensation 
whose darkly mysterious bearing upon the case no one could 
fathom, or even cared to fathom, but a sensation that each 
man confidently believed held the whole secret of the crime 
>—this man was the hero! Had it been suggested, the jury 
would have instantly given a verdict for this hero's client 
without leaving their seats. The betting was two to one on 
Arthur. I beg to observe that I am writing of men, impul¬ 
sive, natural, and unfettered in expression and action by any 
tradition of logic or artificial law—a class of beings much 
idealised by poets, and occasionally, I believe, exalted by 
latter-day philosophers. 

Judge Boompointer looked at Colonel Starbottle. That 
gentleman, completely stunned and mystified by the con¬ 
duct of the defence, fumbled his papers, coughed, expanded 
his chest, rose, and began the cross-examination. 

“ You have said your name was—er—er—^Johnny—er— 
er ”—(the Colonel was here obliged to consult his papers)— 
“er—JohnDumbledee. Whatwasyouridea,Mr. Dumbledee, 
in—er—assuming the name of—er—er—Gabriel Conroy ? ” 

Objected to by counsel for defence. Argument:— 
Firstly, motives, like beliefs, not admissible; case cited, 
Higginbottom v. Smithers. Secondly, not called out oi» 
Direct Ex. ; see Swinke v. Swanke, opinion of Muggins, J., 
2 Cal. Rep. Thirdly, witness not obliged to answer ques¬ 
tions tending to self-crimination. Objection overruled by 
the Court. Precedent not cited; real motive, Curiosity. 
Boompointer, J. Question repeated :— 

“What was your idea or motive in assuming the narn« 
of Gabriel Conroy ? ” 


In Rebuttal, 


463 

Gabriel (cunningly, and leaning confidentially over the 
arm of his chair): “ Wot would be j<?ur idee of a motif? ** 

The witness, amidst much laughter, was here severely 
instructed by the Court that the asking of questions 
was not the function of a witness. The witness must 
answer. . 

Gabriel : “ Well, Gabriel Conroy was a purty name—the 
name of a man ez I onst knew ez died in Starvation Camp. 
It kinder came easy, ez a sort o’ interduckshun, don’t ye 
see, Jedge, toe his sister Grace, ez was my wife. I kinder 
reckon, between you and me, ez thet name sorter helped 
the courtin’ along—she bein’ a shy critter, outer her own 
fammerly.” 

Question : “ In your early acquaintance with the deceased, 
were you not known to him as Gabriel Conroy always, and 
not as—er—er—Johnny Dumbledee?” 

Arthur Poinsett here begged to call the attention of the 
Court to the fact that it had not yet been shown that 
Gabriel—that is, Johnny Dumbledee—had ever had any 
ear/y acquaintance with the deceased. The Court would 
not fail to observe that counsel on the direct examination 
had restricted themselves to a simple question—the name 
of the prisoner. 

Objection sustained by Judge Boompointer, who was 
beginning to be anxious to get at the facts. Whereat 
Colonel Starbottle excepted, had no more questions to ask, 
and Gabriel was commanded to stand aside. 

Betting now five to one on Arthur Poinsett; Gabriel’s 
hand, on leaving the witness box, shaken cordially by a 
number of hitherto disinterested people. Hurried consul¬ 
tation between defendant’s counsel. A note handed to 
Colonel Starbottle. Intense curiosity manifested byManu- 
ela and Sal regarding a closely veiled female, who enters 
1 moment later, and is conducted with an excess of 


464 


Gabriel Conroy. 

courtesy to a seat by the gallant Colonel. Geneial im¬ 
patience of audience and jury. 

The defence resumed. Michael O’Flaherty called; 
nativity, County Kerry, Ireland. Business, miner. On the 
night of the murder, while going home from work, met 
deceased on Conroy’s Hill, dodging in among the trees, for 
all the wurreld like a thafe. A few minutes later overtook 
Gabriel Conroy half a mile farther on, on the same road, 
going in same direction as witness, and walked with him to 
Lawyer Maxwell’s office. Cross examined : Is naturalised. 
Always voted the Dimmycratic ticket. Was always opposed 
to the Government—bad cess to it—in the ould counthry, 
and isn’t thet mane to go back on his principles here. 
Doesn’t know that a Chinaman has affirmed to the same 
fact of Gabriel’s alibi. Doesn’t know what an alibi is; 
thinks he would if he saw it. Believes a Chinaman is worse 
nor a nigger. Has noticed that Gabriel was left-handed. 

Amadee Michet, sworn for defence; nativity, France. 
Business, foreman of La Parfaii Union. Frequently walks 
to himself in the beautiful grove on Conroy’s Hill. Comes 
to him on the night of the, 15th, Gabriel Conroy departing 
from his house. It is then seven hours, possibly more, not 
less. The night is fine. This Gabriel salutes him in the 
American fashion, and is gone. Eastward. Ever to the 
east. Watches M. Conroy because he wears a triste look, 
as if there were great sadness here (in the breast of the 
witness’ blouse). Sees him vanish in the gulch. Returns 
to the hill and there overhears voices, a man’s and a 
woman’s. The woman’s voice is that of Madame Conroy. 
The man’s voice is to him strange and not familiar. Will 
swear positively it was not Gabriel’s. Remains on the hill 
ibout an hour. Did not see Gabriel again. Saw a man 
And woman leave the hill and pass by the Wingdam road 
as he was going home. To the best of his belief the woman 


In Rebuttal. 


465 

* uras Mrs. Conroy. Do not know the man. Is positive it 
was not Gabriel Conroy. Why ? Eh ! Mon Dieu, is it 
possible that one should mistake a giant ? 

Cross examined. Is a patriot—do not know what is this 
Democrat you call. Is a hater of aristocrats. Do not 
know if the deceased was an aristocrat. Was not enraged 
with Madame Conroy. Never made love to her. Was 
not jilted by her. This is all what you call too theen, eh ? 
Has noticed that the prisoner was left-handed. 

Helling Dittmann ; nativity, Germany. Does not know 
the deceased ; does know Gabriel. Met him the night of 
the 15th on the road from Wingdam; thinks it was after 
eight o’clock. He was talking to a Chinaman. 

Cross examined. Has not been told that these are the 
facts stated by the Chinaman. Believes a Chinaman as 
good as any other man. Don’t know what you mean. 
How comes dese dings ? Has noticed the prisoner used his 
left hand efery dime. 

Dr. Pressnitz recalled. Viewed the body at nine o’clock 
on the i6ih. The blood-stains on the linen and the body 
had been slightly obliterated and diluted with water, as if 
they had been subjected to a watery application. There 
was an unusually heavy dew at seven o’clock that evening, 
not later. Has kept a meteorological record for the last 
three years. Is of the opinion that this saturation might be 
caused by dew falling on a clot of coagulated blood. The 
same effect would not be noticeable on a freshly bleeding 
wound. The hygrometer showed no indication of a later 
fall of dew. The night was windy and boisterous after eight 
o’clock, with no humidity. Is of the opinion that the body, 
AS seen by him, first assumed its position before eight 
o’clock. Would not swear positively that the deceased ex¬ 
pired before that time. Would swear positively that the 
wounds were not received after eight o’clock. From the 

VOL. IV. 2 o 


466 Gabriel Conroy. 

position of the wound, should say it was received while the 
deceased was in an upright position, and the arm raised as 
if in struggling. From the course of the wound should say 
it could not have been dealt from the left hand of an op¬ 
ponent. On the cross examination, Dr. Pressnitz admitted 
that many so-called “ left-handed men ” were really ambi 
dexterous. Was of the opinion that perspiration would not 
have caused the saturation of the dead man’s linen. The 
saturation was evidently after death—the blood had clotted. 
Dr. Pressnitz was quite certain that a dead man did not 
perspire. 

The defence rested amid a profound sensation. Colonel 
Starbottle, who had recovered his jaunty spirits, apparently 
influenced by his animated and gallant conversation with 
the veiled female, rose upon his short stubby feet, and with¬ 
drawing his handkerchief from his breast, laid it upon the 
table before him. Then carefully placing the ends of two 
white pudgy fingers upon it, Colonel Starbottle gracefully 
threw his whole weight upon their tips, and leaning elegantly 
toward the veiled figure, called ‘‘ Grace Conroy.” 

The figure arose, sligh,t, graceful, elegant; hesitated a 
moment, and then slipped a lissom shadow through the 
crowd, as a trout glides through a shallow, and before the 
swaying, moving mass had settled to astonished rest, stood 
upon the witness-stand. Then with a quick dexterous 
movement she put aside the veil, that after the Spanisli 
fashion was both bonnet and veil, and revealed a face so 
exquisitely beautiful and gracious, that even Manuela and 
Sal were awed into speechless admiration. She took the 
oath with downcast lids, whose sweeping fringes were so 
perfect that this very act of modesty seemed to the two 
female critics as the most artistic coquetry, and then raised 
her dark eyes and fixed them upon Gabriel. 

Colonel Starbottle waved his hand with infinite gallantry 


In Rebuttal. 


467 


“ What is—er—your name ? ” 

“Grace Conroy,” 

“ Have you a brother by the name of Gabriel Conroy ?“ 
“ I have.” 

“ Look around the Court and see if you can recognise 
him.” 

The witness with her eyes still fixed on Gabriel pointed 
him out with her gloved finger. “ I do. He is there ! ” 

“ The prisoner at the bar ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He is Gabriel Conroy ? ” 

“He is.” 

“ How long is it since you have seen him ?” 

“ Six years.” 

“ Where did you see him last, and under what circum¬ 
stances ? ” 

“ At Starvation Camp, in the Sierras. I left there to get 
help for him and my sister.” 

“And you have never seen him since?” 

“ Never ! ” 

“ Are you aware that among the—er—er—unfortunates 
who perished, a body that was alleged to be yours was 
identified ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Can you explain that circumstance ? ” 

“ Yes. When I left I wore a suit of boy’s clothes. I 
left my own garments for Mrs. Peter Dumphy, one of our 
party. It was her body, clothed in my garments, that was 
identified as myself.” 

“ Have you any proof of that fact other than your state- 
nent ? ” 

“ Yes. Mr. Peter Dumphy, the husband of Mrs. Dumphy. 

my brother Gabriel Conroy and ”- 

“May it please the Court” (the voice was Arthur 



^68 Gabriel Com^oy. 

Poinsett’s, cool, quiet, and languidly patient), “ may it please 
the Court, we of the defence—to save your Honour and 
the jury some time and trouble—are willing to admit this 
identification of our client as Gabriel Conroy, and the 
witness, without further corroboration than her own word, 
as his sister. Your Honour and the gentlemen of the jury 
will not fail to recognise in the evidence of our client as to 
his own name and origin, a rash, foolish, and, on behalf of 
myself and my colleague, I must add, unadvised attempt 
to save the reputation of the wife he deeply loves from the 
equally unadvised and extraneous evidence brought forward 
by the prosecution. But we must insist, your Honour, that 
all this is impertinent to the real issue, the killing of Victor 
Ramirez by John Doe, alias Gabriel Conroy. Admitting 
the facts just testified to by the witness, Grace Conroy, we 
have no cross examination to make.” 

The face of the witness, which had been pale and self* 
possessed, flushed suddenly as she turned her eyes upon 
Arthur Poinsett. But that self-contained scamp retained 
an unmoved countenance as, at Judge Boompointer’s 
unusually gracious instruction that the witness might retire, 
Grace Conroy left the stand. To a question from the 
Court, Colonel Starbottle intimated that he should offer no 
further evidence in rebuttal. 

“ May it please the Court,” said Arthur, quietly, “ if we 
accept the impeachment by a sister of a brother on trial for 
his life, without comment or cross examination, it is because 
we are confident—legally confident—of showing the inno¬ 
cence of that brother by other means. Recognising the 
fact that this trial is not for the identification of the prisoner 
under any name or alias^ but simply upon the issue of the' 
fact whether he did or did not commit murder upon tlic 
body of Victor Ramirez, as specified in the indictment, vre 
ftow, waiving all other issues, prepare to prove his innocence 


In Rebuttal. 


409 

by a single witness. That this witness was not produced 
earlier^ was unavoidable ; that his testimony was not out¬ 
lined in the opening, was due to the fact that only within 
the last half-hour had he been within the reach of the 
mandate of this Court. He would call Henry Perkins !” 

There was a slight stir among the spectators by the door 
as they made way to a quaint figure that, clad in garments of 
a bygone fashion, with a pale, wrinkled, yellow face, and grey 
hair, from which the dye had faded, stepped upon the stand. 

Is a translator of Spanish and searcher of deeds to the 
Land Commission. Is called an expert. Recognises the 
prisoner at the bar. Saw him only once, two days before 
the murder, in passing over Conroy’s Hill. He was sitting 
on the door-step of a deserted cabin with a little girl by his 
side. Saw the deceased twice. Once when he came to 
Don Pedro’s house in San Francisco to arrange for the 
forgery of a grant that should invalidate one already held 
by the prisoner’s wife. Saw the deceased again, after the 
forgery, on Conroy’s Hill, engaged in conversation with the 
prisoner’s wife. Deceased appeared to be greatly excited, 
and suddenly drew a knife and made an attack upon the 
prisoner’s wife. Witness reached forward and interposed 
in defence of the woman, when the deceased turned upon 
him in a paroxysm of insane rage, and a struggle took place 
between them for the possession of the knife, witness call¬ 
ing for help. Witness did not succeed in wresting the knife 
from the hands of deceased ; it required all his strength 
to keep himself from bodily harm. In the midst of the 
struggle witness heard steps approaching, and again called 
for help. 

The witness’ call was responded to by a voice in broken 
English, unintelligible to witness, apparently the voice of a 
Chinaman. At the sound of the voice and the approach of 
f^tsteos, the deceased broke from witness, and running 


470 Gabriel Conroy. 

backward a few steps, plunged the knife into his own breast 
and fell. Witness ran to his side and again called for help. 
Deceased turned upon him with a ghastly smile and said, 
“ Bring any one here and I’ll accuse you before them of nfiy 
murder ! ” Deceased did not speak again, but fell into a 
state of insensibility. Witness became alarmed, reflecting 
upon the threat of the deceased, and did not go for help. 
While standing irresolutely by the body, Mrs. Conroy, the 
prisoner’s wife, came upon him. Confessed to her the 
details just described, and the threat of the deceased. She 
advised the instant flight of the witness, and offered to go 
with him herself. Witness procured a horse and buggy 
from a livery stable, and at half-past nine at night took 
Mrs. Conroy from the hillside near the road, where she was 
waiting. Drove to Markleville that night, where he left her 
under an assumed name, and came alone to San Francisco 
and the Mission of San Antonio. Here he learned from 
the last witness, the prisoner’s sister, Grace Conroy, of the 
arrest of her brother for murder. Witness at once returned 
to One Horse Gulch, only to find the administration of 
justice in the hands of a Vigilance Committee. Feeling 
that his own life might be sacrificed without saving the 
prisoner’s, he took refuge in a tunnel on Conroy’s HilL 
It chanced to be the same tunnel which Gabriel Conroy 
and his friend afterwards sought in escaping from the Vigi¬ 
lance Committee after the earthquake. Witness, during the 
absence of Gabriel, made himself known to Mr. Jack Hamlin, 
Gabriel’s friend and comrade in flight, and assured him of 
the witness’s intention to come forward whenever a fait 
trial could be accorded to Gabriel. After the re-arrest and 
bailing of Gabriel, witness returned to San Francisco to 
procure evidence regarding the forged grant, and proofs of 
Ramirez’s persecution of Mrs. Conroy. Had brought with 
him the knife, and had found the cutler who sold it to 


A Family Greeting, 471 

deceased eight months before, when deceased first meditated 
an assault on Mrs. Conroy. Objected to, and objection 
overruled by a deeply interested and excited Court. 

“ That is all,” said Arthur. 

Colonel Starbottle, seated beside Grace Conroy, did not, 
fora moment, respond to the impatient eyes of the audience 
in the hush that followed. It was not until Grace Conroy 
whispered a few words in his ear, that the gallant Colonel 
lifted his dilated breast and self-complacent face above the 
level of the seated counsel. 

“ What—er—er—was the reason—why did the—er—er— 
deeply anxious wife, who fled with you, and thus precipitated 
the arrest of her husband—why did not she return with you to 
clear him from suspicion? Why does she remain absent? ” 

“ She was taken ill—dangerously ill at Markleville. The 
excitement and fatigue of the journey had brought on pre¬ 
mature confinement. A child was born ”- 

There was a sudden stir among the group beside the pri¬ 
soner’s chair. Colonel Starbottle, with a hurried glance at 
Grace Conroy, waved his hand toward the witness and sat 
down. Arthur Poinsett rose. “We ask a moment’s delay, 
your Honour. The prisoner has fallen in a fiu” 


CHAPTER VH. 

A FAMILY GREETING. 

When Gabriel opened his eyes to consciousness, he was 
lying on the floor of the jury room, his head supported by 
Oily, and a slight, graceful, womanly figure, that had been 
apparently bending over him, in the act of slowly withdraw¬ 
ing from his awakening gaze. It was his sister Grace. 

“ Thar, you’re better now,” said Oily, taking her brother’s 
hand, and quietly ignoring her sister, on whom Gabriel’s 


472 Gabriel Conroy. 

eyes were still fixed. “Try and raise yourself inter this 
chair. Thar—thar now—that’s a good old Gabe—thar ! I 
reckon you’re more comfortable ! ” 

“ It’s Gracey ! ” whispered Gabriel, hoarsely, with his eyes 
still fixed upon the slight, elegantly dressed woman, who 
now, leaning against the doorway, stood coldly regarding him. 
“ It’s Gracey—your sister, Oily ! ” 

“ Ef you mean the woman who hez been tryin’ her best 
to swar away your life, and kem here allowin’ to do it—she 
ain’t no sister o’ mine—not,” added Oily, with a withering 
glance at the simple elegance of her sister’s attire, “ not 
even ef she does trapse in yer in frills and tuckers—more 
shame for her ! ” 

“ If you mean,” said Grace, coldly, “ the girl whose birth¬ 
right you took away by marrying the woman who stole it, if 
you mean the girl who rightfully bears the name that you 
denied, under oath, in the very shadow of the gallows, she 
claims nothing of you but her name.” 

“ Thet’s so,” said Gabriel, simply. He dropped his head 
between his great hands, and a sudden tremor shook his 
huge frame. 

“ Ye ain’t goin’ to be driv inter histeriks agin along o’ 
that crokodill,” said Oily, bending over her brother in 
alarm. “Don’t ye—don’t ye cry, Gabe !” whimpered Oily, 
as a few drops oozed between Gabriel’s fingers; “ don’t ye 
take on, darling, afore her 

The two sisters glared at each other over the helpless 
man between them. Then another woman entered who 
looked sympathetically at Gabriel and then glared at them 
both. It was Mrs Markle. At which, happily for Gabriel, 
the family bickering ceased. 

“ It’s all over, Gabriel! you’re clar! ” said Mrs. 
Markle, ignoring the sympathies as well as the presence of 
the two other ladies. “ Here’s Mr. Poinsett.” 


473 


A Family Greeting. 

He entered quickly, but stopped and flushed slightly 
under the cold eyes of Grace Conroy. But only for a 
moment. Coming to Gabriel’s side, he said, kindly, 
“Gabriel, I congratulate you. The acting District Attorney 
has entered a nolle prosequi^ and you are discharged.” 

“Ye mean I kin go?” said Gabriel, suddenly lifting his 
face. 

“ Yes. You are as free as air.” 

“ And ez to her ? ” asked Gabriel, quickly. 

“ Who do you mean ? ” replied Arthur, involuntarily 
glancing in the direction of Grace, whose eyes dropped 
scornfully before him. 

“ My wife—July—is she clar too ? ” 

“ As far as this trial is concerned, yes,” returned Arthur, 
with a trifle less interest in his voice, which Gabriel was 
quick to discern. 

“Then I’ll go,” said Gabriel, rising to his feet. He 
made a few steps to the door and then hesitated, stopped, 
and turned toward Grace. As he did so his old apologetic, 
troubled, diffident manner returned. 

“Ye’ll exkoos me, miss,” he said, looking with troubled 
eyes upon his newly-found sister, “ye’ll exkoos me, ef I 
haven’t the time now to do the agreeable and show ye over 
yer property on Conroy’s Hill. But it’s thar ! It’s all thar, 
ez Lawyer Maxwell kin testify. It’s all thar and the house 
is open, ez it always was to ye, ez the young woman who 
keeps the house kin tell ye. I’d go thar with ye ef I hed 
time, but I’m startin’ out now, to-night, to see July. To 
see my wife, Miss Conroy, to see July ez is expectin’! And 
I reckon thar’ll be a baby—a pore little, helpless newborn 
Ijaby—ony so long!” added Gabriel, exhibiting his fore¬ 
finger as a degree of mensuration ; “and ez a fammerly man, 
being ladies, I reckon you reckon I oughter be thar.” (I 
grieve to state that at this moment the ladies appealed to 


474 Gabriel Conroy, 

exchanged a glance of supreme contempt, and am proud to 
record that Lawyer Maxwell and Mr. Poinsett exhibited 
the only expression of sympathy with the speaker that was 
noticeable in the group.) 

Arthur detected it and said, I fear none the less readily 
for that knowledge— 

“Don’t let us keep you, Gabriel; we understand vour 
feelings. Go at once.” 

“ Take me along, Gabe,” said Oily, flashing her eyes at her 
sister, and then turning to Gabriel with a quivering upper lip. 

Gabriel turned, swooped his tremendous arm around Oily, 
lifted her bodily off her feet, and saying, “ You’re my own 
little girl,” vanished through the doorway. 

This movement reduced the group to Mrs. Markle and 
Grace Conroy, confronted by Mr. Poinsett and Maxwell. 
Mrs. Markle relieved an embarrassing silence by stepping 
forward and taking the arm of Lawyer Maxwell and lead¬ 
ing him away. Arthur and Grace were left alone. 

For the first time in his life Arthur lost his readiness 
and self-command. He glanced awkwardly at the woman 
before him, and felt that neither conventional courtesy 
nor vague sentimental recollection would be effective here. 

“ I am waiting for my maid,” said Grace, coldly; “ if 
as you return to the Court-room, you will send her her;, 
you will oblige me.” 

Arthur bowed confusedly. 

“ Your maid ”- 

«Yes; you know her, I think, Mr. Poinsett,” con¬ 
tinued Grace, lifting her arched brows with cold surprise 
“ Manuela! ” 

Arthur turned pale and red. He was conscious of being 
not only awkward but ridiculous. 

“ Pardon me—perhaps I am troubling you—I will go 
myself,” said Grace, contemptuously. 



475 


A Family Greeting. 

** One moment, Miss Conroy,*’ said Arthur, instinctively 
stepping before her as she moved as if to pass him, “ one 
moment, I beg.” He paused, and then said, with less 
deliberation and more impulsively than had been his habit 
for the last six years, “You will, perhaps, be more forgiving 
to your brother if you know that I, who have had the 
pleasure of meeting you since—you were lost to us all—1, 
who have not had his pre-occupation of interest in another 
—even I, have been as blind, as foolish, as seemingly 
heartless as he. You will remember this. Miss Conroy—I 
hope quite as much for its implied compliment to your 
complete disguise, and an evidence of the success of your 
own endeavours to obliterate your identity, as for its being 
an excuse for your brother’s conduct, if not for my own. 1 
did not know you.” 

Grace Conroy paused and raised her dark eyes to his. 

“ You spoke of my brother’s pre-occupation with—with 
the woman for whom he would have sacrificed anything— 
me —his very life ! I can—I am a woman—I can under¬ 
stand that! You have forgotten, Don Arturo, you have 
forgotten—pardon me—I am not finding fault—it is not for 
me to find fault—but you have forgotten—Donna Maria 
Sepulvida ! ” 

She swept by him with a rustle of silk and lace, and was 
gone. His heart gave a sudden bound ; he was about to 
follow her, when he was met at the door by the expanding 
bosom of Colonel Starbottle. 

“ Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, as a man of—er—er— 
er—honour ! to congratulate you, sir ! When we—er—er 
-^parted in San Francisco I did not think that I would 
have the—er—er—pleasure—a rare pleasure to Colonel 
Starbottle, sir, in his private as well as his—er—er—public 
capacity, of—er—er—a publ:c apology. Ged, sir 1 I have 
made it! Ged, sir! when I entered that nollepros.^ I said 


476 Gabriel Conroy. 

to myself, ‘Star., this is an apology—an apology, sirl 
But you are responsible, sir, you are responsible. Star. ! 
personally responsible I ’ ” 

“ I thank you,” said Arthur, abstractedly, still straining 
his eyes after the retreating figure of Grace Conroy, and 
trying to combat a sudden instinctive jealousy of the man 
before him, “ I thank you, Colonel, on behalf of my client 
and myself.” 

“ Ged, sir,” said Colonel Starbottle, blocking up the way, 
with a general expansiveness of demeanour, “ Ged, sir, this 
is not all. You will remember that our recent interview in 
San Francisco was regarding another and a different issue. 
That, sir, I am proud to say, the developments of evidence 
in this trial have honourably and—er—er—as a lawyer, I 
may say, have legally settled. With the—er—er—identifi¬ 
cation and legal—er—er—^rehabilitation of Grace Conroy, 
that claim of my client falls to the ground. You may state 
to your client, Mr. Poinsett, that—er—er—upon my own 
personal responsibility I abandon the claim.” 

Arthur Poinsett stopped and looked fixedly at the gallant 
Colonel. Even in his sentimental pre-occupation the pro¬ 
fessional habit triumphed. 

“ You withdraw Mrs. Dumphy’s claim upon Mr. 
Dumphy?” he said, slowly. 

Colonel Starbottle did not verbally reply, but that gallant 
warrior allowed the facial muscles on the left side of his 
face to relax so that one eye was partially closed. 

“Yes, sir,—there is a matter of a few thousand dollars 
that~er—er—^you understand, I am—er—er—personally 
responsible for.” 

“That will never be claimed. Colonel Starbottle,” said 
Arthur, smiling, “ and I am only echoing, I am sure, the 
sentiments of the man most concerned, who is approaching 
as—Mr. Dumphy.” 


The Footprints Return. 


47; 


CHAPTER VIII. 

IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS RETURN. 

Mr. Jack Hamlin was in very bad case. When Dr. 
Duchesne, who had been summoned from Sacramento, 
wrived, that eminent surgeon had instantly assumed such 
light-heartedness and levity toward his patient, such cap¬ 
tiousness toward Pete, with an occasional seriousness of 
demeanour when he was alone, that, to those who knew 
him, it was equal to an unfavourable prognosis. Indeed, 
he evaded the direct questioning of Oily, who had lately 
constituted herself a wondrously light-footed, soft-handed 
assistant of Pete, until one day, when they were alone, he 
asked more seriously than was his wont if Mr. Hamlin had 
ever spoken of his relations, or if she knew of any of his 
friends who were accessible. 

Oily had already turned this subject over in her womanly 
mind, and had thought once or twice of writing .to the Blue 
Moselle, but on the direct questioning of the doctor, and 
its peculiar significance, she recalled Jack’s confidences on 
their midnight ride, and the Spanish beauty he had out- 
lined; and so one evening, when she was alone with her 
patient, and the fever was low, and Jack lay ominously 
patient and submissive, she began—what the doctor had 
only lately abandoned—probing a half-healed wound. 

“ I reckon you’d hev been a heap more comfortable ef 
this thing hed happened to ye down thar in San Antonio,” 
said Oily. 

Jack rolled his dark eyes wonderingly upon his fair 
persecutor. 

** You know you’d hev had thet thar sweetheart o’ yours 

_thet Mexican woman—sittin’ by ye, instead o’ me—and 

Pete,” suggested the artful Olympia. 


478 Gabriel Conroy. 

Jack nearly leaped from the bed. 

“ Do you reckon I’d hev rung myself in as a wandering 
cripple—a tramp thet hed got peppered—on a lady like 
her'i Look yer, Oily,” continued Mr. Hamlin, raising 
himself on his elbow, if you’ve got the idea thet thet 
woman is one of them hospital sharps—one of them angels 
who waltz round a sick man with a bottle of camphor in 
one hand and a tract in the other—you had better disabuse 
your mind of it at once. Miss Conroy; take a back seat 
and wait for a new deal. And don’t you go to talkin’ of 
thet lady as ray sweetheart—it’s—it’s—sacrilegious—and 
the meanest kind of a bluff.” 

As the day of the trial drew near, Mr. Hamlin had ex¬ 
pressed but little interest in it, and had evidently only with¬ 
held his general disgust of Gabriel’s weakness from con¬ 
sideration of his sister. Once Mr. Hamlin condescended 
to explain his apparent coldness. 

“ There’s a witness coming, Oily, that’ll clear your brother 
■—more shame for him—the man ez did kill Ramirez. I’m 
keeping my sympathies for that chap. Don’t you be 
alarmed. If that man don’t come up to the scratch I will. 
So—don’t you go whining round. And ef you’ll take my 
advice, you’ll keep clear o’ that Court, and let them lawyers 
fight it out. It will be time enough for you to go when 
they send for me:' 

“But you can’t move—^you ain’t strong enough,” said 
Oily. 

“ I reckon Pete will get me there some wa\', if he has to 
pack me on his back. I ain’t a heavy weight now,” said 
Jack, looking sadly at his thin white hands : “ I’ve reckoned 
on that, and even if I should pass in my checks, there’s an 
affidavit already sworn to in Maxwell’s hands.” 

Nevertheless, on the day of the trial. Oily, still doubtfu/ 
of Gabriel, and still mindful of his capacity to develop 


The Footprints Return. 479 

‘ God-forsaken mulishness,” was nervous and uneasy, until 
1 messenger arrived from Maxwell with a note to Hamlin, 
carrying the tidings of the appearance of Perkins in Court, 
and closing with a request for Oily’s presence. 

“Who’s Perkins?” asked Oily, as she reached for her 
hat in nervous excitement. 

‘ He’s no slouch,” said Jack, sententiously. “ Don’t 
aik questions. It’s all right with Gabriel now,” he added, 
assuringly. “ He’s as good as clear. Run away. Miss 
Conroy. Hold up a minit! There, kiss me! Look 
here. Oily, say !—do you take any stock in that lost sister 
of yours that your fool of a brother is always gabbing 
about? You do? Well, you are as big a fool as he. 
There ! There !—never mind now—she’s turned up at 
last! Much good may it do you. One ! two !—go ! ” 
and as Oily’s pink ribbons flashed through the doorway, 
Mr. Hamlin lay down again with a twinkle in his eye. 

He was alone. The house was very quiet and still; 
most of the guests, and the hostess and her assistant, were 
at the all-absorbing trial; even the faithful Pete, uncon¬ 
scious of any possible defection of his assistant. Oily, had 
taken the opportunity to steal away to hear the arguments 
of counsel. As the retreating footsteps of Oily echoed 
along the vacant corridor, he felt that he possessed the 
house completely. 

This consciousness to a naturally active man, bored by 
Llness and the continuous presence of attendants, how¬ 
ever kind and devoted, was at first a relief. Mr. Hamlin 
experienced an instant desire to get up and dress himself, 
fO do various things which were forbidden—but which now 
an overruling Providence had apparently placed within his 
reach. He rose with great difficulty, and a physical weak¬ 
ness that seemed altogether inconsistent with the excite¬ 
ment he was then feeling, and partially dressed himself 


480 Gabriel Conroy, 

Then he was suddenly overtaken with great faintness and 
vertigo, and struggling to the open window, fell in a chair 
beside it. The cool breeze revived him for a moment, and 
he tried to rise, but found it impossible. Then the faintness 
and vertigo returned, and he seemed to be slipping away 
somewhere—not altogether unpleasantly, nor against his 
volition—somewhere where there was darkness and stillness 
and rest. And then he slipped back, almost instantly as it 
seemed to him, to a room full of excited and anxious people, 
all extravagantly, and as he thought, ridiculously concerned 
about himself. He tried to assure them that he was all 
right, and not feeling any worse for his exertion, but was 
unable to make them understand him. Then followed 
Night, replete with pain, and filled with familiar voices that 
spoke unintelligibly, and then Day, devoted to the monoto¬ 
nous repetition of the last word or phrase that the doctor, 
or Pete, or Oily had used, or the endless procession of 
Oily’s pink ribbons, and the tremulousness of a window 
curtain, or the black, sphinx-like riddle of a pattern on the 
bed-quilt or the wall-paper. Then there was sleep that 
was turbulent and conscious, and wakefulness that was 
lethargic and dim, and then infinite weariness, and then 
lapses of utter vacuity—the occasional ominous impinging 
of the shadow of death. 

But through this chaos there was always a dominant 
central figure—a figure partly a memory, and, as such, 
surrounded by consistent associations ; partly a reality and 
incongruous with its surroundings—the figure of Donna 
Dolores ! But whether this figure came back to Mr. 
Hamlin out of the dusky arches of the Mission Church in 
a cloud of incense, besprinkling him with holy water, or 
whethei it bent over him, touching his feverish lips with 
cool drinks, or smoothing his pillow, a fact utterly unrea’ 
and preposterous seen against the pattern of the wall-pape* 


In which Mr. Hamlin Passes. 481 

•r sitting on the familiar chair by his bedside—it was 
always there. And when, one day, the figure stayed 
longer, and the interval of complete consciousness seemed 
more protracted, Mr. Hamlin, with one mighty effort, 
moved his lips, and said feebly— 

“ Donna Dolores ! ” 

The figure started, leaned its beautiful face, blushing a 
celestial rosy red, above his own, put its finger to its 
perfect lips, and said in plain English— 

Hush ! I am Gabriel Conroy’s sister.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN WHICH MR. HAMLIN PASSES. 

With his lips sealed by the positive mandate of the lovely 
spectre, Mr. Hamlin resigned himself again to weakness 
and sleep. When he awoke. Oily was sitting by his bed¬ 
side; the dusky figure of Pete, spectacled and reading a 
good book, was dimly outlined against the window—but 
that was all. The vision—if vision it was—had fled. 

“ Oily,” said Mr. Hamlin, faintly. 

“ Yes I ” said Oily, opening her eyes in expectant 
lympathy. 

‘‘ How long have I been dr—I mean how long has 
this—spell lasted ? ” 

“ Three days,” said Oily. 

“ The-you say ! ” (A humane and possibly weak con¬ 

sideration for Mr. Hamlin in his new weakness and suffer¬ 
ing restricts me to a mere outline of his extravagance of 
speech.) 

But you’re better now,” supplemented Oily. 

Mr. Hamlin began to wonder faintly if his painful experi 
cnce of the last twenty-four hours were a part of his con 
VOL. IV. 2 H 



482 Gabriel Conroy. 

valescence. He was silent for a few moments and llien 
suddenly turned his face toward Oily. 

“ Didn’t you say something about—about—your sister, 
the other day ? ” 

“ Yes—she’s got back,” said Oily, curtly. 

“ Here?” 

Here.” 

*' Well ? ” said Mr. Hamlin, a little impatiently, 

“Well,” returned Oily, with a slight toss of her curls, 
“ she’s got back, and I reckon it’s about time she did.” 

Strange to say, Oily’s evident lack of appreciation of her 
sister seemed to please Mr. Hamlin—possibly because ii 
agreed with his own idea of Grace’s superiority and his 
inability to recognise or accept her as the sister of Gabriel. 

“ Where lias she been all this while ? ” asked Jack, 
rolling his large hollow eyes over Oily. 

“ Goodness knows ! Says she’s bin livin’ in some 
fammerly down in the South—Spanish, I reckon; thet’s 
whar she gits those airs and graces.” 

“Has she ever been here—in this room?” asked Mr. 
Hamlin. 

“ Of course she has,” said Oily. “ When I left you to go 
with Gabe to see his wife at Wingdam, she volunteered to 
take my place. Thet waz while you waz flighty, Mr. 
Hamlin. But I reckon she admired to stay here on account 
of seein’ her bo ! ” 

“ Her what ? ” asked Mr. Hamlin, feeling the blood last 
rushing to his colourless face. 

“ Her bo,” repeated Oily, “ thet thar Ashley, or Poinsett 
—or whatever he calls hisself now ! ” 

Mr. Hamlin here looked so singular, and his hand tight¬ 
ened so strongly around Oily’s, that she hurriedly repeated 
to him the story of Grace’s early wanderings, and her ab* 
Borbing passion for their former associate, Arthur Poinsett 


Ill which Mr. Hamlin Passes. 483 

The statement was, in Oily’s present state of mind, not 
favourable to Grace. “ And she just came up yer only to 
Bee Arthur agin. Thet’s all. And she nearly swearin’ her 
brother’s life away—and pretendin’ it was only done to save 
the fammerly name. Jest ez if it hed been any more com¬ 
fortable fur Gabriel to have been hung in his own name. 
And then goin’ and accusin’ thet innocent ole lamb, GabCj 
of conspiring with July to take her name away. Purty goin’s 
on, I reckon. And thet man Poinsett, by her own showin’ 
—never lettin’ on to see her nor us—nor anybody. And 
she sassin’ me for givin’ my opinion of him—and excusin’ 
him by sayin’ she didn’t want him to know 7vhar she was. 
And she refusin’ to see July at all—and pore July lyin’ 
thar at Wingdam, sick with a new baby. Don’t talk to me 
about her!” 

“ But your sister didn’t run away with—with—this chap. 
She went away to bring you help,” interrupted Jack, hastily 
dragging Oily back to earlier history. 

“ Did she? Couldn’t she trust her bo to go and get help 
and then come back fur her?—reckonin’ he cared for her 
at all. No, she waz thet crazy after him she couldn’t trust 
him outer her sight—and she left the camp and Gabe and 
ME for him. And then the idee of her talking to Gabriel 
about bein’ disgraced by July. Ez ef she had never done 
anythin’ to spile her own name, and puttin’ on such airs 
and ”- 

“ Dry up ! ” shouted Mr. Hamlin, turning with sudden 
savagenesS upon his pillow. “ Dry up !—don’t you see 
you’re driving me half-crazy with your infernal buzzing?” 
He paused, as Oily stopped in mingled mortification and 
alarm, and then added in milder tones, “ There, that’ll do. 
.. am not feeling well tr-day. Send Dr. Duchesne to me if 
tie’s here. Stop one moment—there ! good-bye, go !” 

Oily had risen promptly. There was always something 



484 Gabriel Conroy, 

in Mr. Hamlin's positive tones that commanded an obedh 
ence that she would have refused to any other. Thoroughly 
convinced of some important change in Mr. Hamlin’s 
symptoms, she sought the doctor at once. Perhaps she 
brought with her some of her alarm and anxiety, for a mo¬ 
ment later that distinguished physician entered with less 
deliberation than was his habit. He walked to the bed¬ 
side of his patient, and would have taken his hand, but Jack 
slipped his tell-tale pulse under the covers, and looking 
fixedly at the doctor, said— 

“ Can I be moved from here ?” 

You can, but I should hardly advise ”- 

“ I didn’t ask that. This is a lone hand I’m playin', 
doctor, and if I’m euchred, tain’t your fault. How soon ? ” 
“ I should say,” said Dr. Duchesne, with professional 
caution, “ that if no bad symptoms supervene ” (he made 
here a half habitual but wholly ineffectual dive for Jack's 
pulse), “ you might go in a week.” 

“ I must go now ! ” 

Dr. Duchesne bent over his patient. He was a quick as 
well as a patiently observing man, and he saw something in 
Jack’s face that no one else had detected. Seeing this he 
said, “You can go now, at a great risk—the risk of your life.'’ 

“I’ll take it !” said Mr. Hamlin, promptly. “ I’ve been 
playin’ agin odds,” he added, with a faint but audacious 
smile, “ for the last six months, and it’s no time to draw out 
now. Go on, tell Pete to pack up and get me ready.” 

“ Where are you going ? ” asked the doctor, quietly, still 
gazing at his patient. 

“To!—blank!” said Mr. Hamlin, impulsively. Then 
recognising the fact that in view of his having travelling com 
panions, some more definite and practicable locality was 
necessary, he paused a moment, and said, “ To the Mission 
of San Antonio.” 


Ill which Mr, Hamlin Passes. 485 

^ Very well,’* said the doctor, gravely. 

Strange to say, whether from the doctor’s medication, 01 
from the stimulus of some reserved vitality hitherto unsus¬ 
pected, Mr. Hamlin from that moment rallied. The pre¬ 
parations for his departure were quickly made, and in a few 
hours he was ready for the road. 

“ I don’t want to have anybody cacklin’ around me,” he 
said, in deprecation of any leave-taking. “ I leave the 
board, they can go on with the game.” 

Notwithstanding which, at the last moment, Gabriel 
hung awkwardly and heavily around the carriage in which 
the invalid was seated. 

“ I’d foller arter ye, Mr. Hamlin, in a buggy,” he inter¬ 
polated, in gentle deprecation of his unwieldy and difficult 
bulk, “ but I’m sorter kept yer with my wife—who is 
powerful weak along of a pore small baby—about so long 
—the same not bein’ a fammerly man yourself, you don’t 
kinder get the hang of. I thought it might please ye to 
know that I got bail yesterday for thet Mr. Perkins—ez 
didn’t kill that thar Ramirez—the same havin’ killed hisself 
— ez waz fetched out on the trial, which I reckon ye didn’t 
get to hear. I admire to see ye lookin’ so well, Mr. 
Hamlin, and I’m glad Oily’s goin’ with ye. I reckon 
Grace would hev gone too, but she’s sorter skary about 
strangers, hevin’ bin engaged these seving years to a young 
man by the name o’ Poinsett ez waz one o’ my counsel, 
and hevin’ lately had a row with the same—one o’ them 
lovers’ fights—which bein’ a young man yourself, ye kin 
kindly allow for.” 

“ Drive on ! ” imprecated Mr. Hamlin furiously to the 
driver; “ what are you waiting for ? ” and with the whirling 
wheels Gabriel dropped off apologetically in a cloud of 
dust, and Mr. Hamlin sank back exhaustedly on the 
cushions. 


486 Gabriel Conroy, 

Notwithstanding, as he increased his distance from One 
Horse Gulch, his spirits seemed to rise, and by the time 
they had reached San Antonio he had recovered his old 
audacity and dash of manner, and raised the highest hopes 
in the breast of everybody but—his doctor. Yet that 
gentleman, after a careful examination of his patient one 
night, said privately to Pete, “ I think this exaltation will 
last about three days longer. I am going to San Francisco 
At the end of that time I shall return—unless you telegraph 
to me before that.” He parted gaily from his patient, and 
seriously from everybody else. Before he left he sought 
out Padre Felipe. “ I have a patient here, in a critical 
condition,” said the doctor; “the hotel is no place for 
him. Is there any family here—any house that will receive 
him under your advice for a week ? At the end of that 
time he will be better, or beyond our ministration. He is 
not a Protestant—he is nothing. You have had experience 
with the heathen. Father Felipe.” 

Father Felipe looked at Dr. Duchesne. The doctors 
well-earned professional fame had penetrated even San 
Antonio; the doctor’s insight and intelligence were visible 
in his manner, and touched the Jesuit instantly. “ It is 
a strange case, my son; a sad case,” he said, thoughtfully. 
“ I will see.” 

He did. The next day, under the directions of Father 
Felipe, Mr. Hamlin w^as removed to the Rancho of the 
Blessed Fisherman, and notwithstanding the fact that its 
hostess was absent, was fairly installed as its guest. When 
Mrs. Sepulvida returned from her visit to San Francisco, 
she was at first astonished, then excited, and then, I fear 
gratified. 

For she at once recognised in this guest of Father Felipe 
the mysterious stranger whom she had, some weeks aga 
detected on the plains of the Blessed Trinity. And Jack 


In which Mr, Hamlin Passes, 487 

despite his illness, was still handsome, and had, moreover^ 
the melancholy graces of invalidism, which go far with an 
habitually ailing sex. And so she coddled Mr. Hamlin, 
and gave him her sacred hammock by day over the porch, 
and her best bedroom at night. And then, at the close of 
a pleasant day, she said, archly— 

“ I think I have seen you before, Mr. Hamlin—at the 
Rancho of the Blessed Trinity. You remember—the house 
of Donna Dolores ? ” 

Mr. Hamlin was too observant of the sex to be imper¬ 
tinently mindful of another woman than his interlocutor, 
and assented with easy indifference. 

Donna Maria (now thoroughly convinced that Mr. 
Hamlin’s attentions on that eventful occasion were intended 
for herself, and even delightfully suspicious of some pre¬ 
arranged plan in his present situation): “ Poor Donna 
Dolores ! You know we have lost her for ever.” 

Mr. Hamlin asked, “ When ? ” 

“ That dreadful earthquake on the 8th.” 

Mr. Hamlin, reflecting that the appearance of Grace 
Conroy was on the loth, assented again abstractedly. 

“Ah, yes! so sad I And yet, perhaps, for the best. 
You know the poor girl had a hopeless passion for her 
legal adviser—the famous Arthur Poinsett I Ah ! you did 
not? Well, perhaps it was only merciful that she died 
before she knew how insincere that man’s attentions 
were. You are a believer in special Providences, Mr. 
Hamlin ? ” 

Mr. Hamlin (doubtfully): “You mean a run of 
luck?” 

Donna Maria (rapidly, ignoring Mr. Hamlin’s illus- 
jration) ; “ Well, perhaps I have reason to say so. Poor 
Donna Dolores was my friend. Yet, would you believe 
there were people—you know how ridiculous is the gossip 


488 Gabriel Conroy, 

of a town like this—there are people who believed that he 
was paying attention to ME !” 

Mrs. Sepulvida hung her head archly. There was i 
long pause. Then Mr. Hamlin called faintly— 

“Pete !” 

“Yes, Mars Jack.” 

“ Ain’t it time to take that medicine ? ” 

When Dr. Duchesne returned he ignored all this little 
byplay, and even the anxious inquiries of Oily, and said to 
Mr. Hamlin— 

“ Have you any objection to my sending for Dr. Mackin¬ 
tosh—a devilish clever fellow ? ” 

And Mr. flamlin had none. And so, after a private 
telegram. Dr. Mackintosh arrived, and for three or four 
hours the two doctors talked in an apparently unintel¬ 
ligible language, chiefly about a person whom Mr. Hamlin 
was satisfied did not exist. And when Dr. Mackintosh 
left, Dr. Duchesne, after a very earnest conversation with 
him on their way to the stage office, drew a chair beside 
Mr. Hamlin’s bed. 

“Jack!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Have you got everything fixed—all right ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Jack!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ You’ve made Pete very happy this morning.” 

Jack looked up at Dr. Duchesne’s critical face, and the 
doctor went on gravely— 

“ Confessing religion to him—saying you believed as he 
did ! ” 

A faint laugh glimmered in the dark hollows of Jack’s 
eyes. 

“ The old man,” he said, explanatory, “ has been preachin 


In which Mr, Ha^nlin Passes, 489 

mighty heavy at me ever since t’other doctor came, and 1 
reckoned it might please him to allow that everything he 
said was so. You see the old man’s bin right soft on me, 
and between us, doctor, I ain’t much to give him in ex¬ 
change. It’s no square game ! ” 

“Then you believe you’re going to die?” said the 
doctor, gravely. 

“ I reckon.” 

“And you have no directions to give me?” 

“There’s a black hound at Sacramento—Jim Briggs, 
who borrowed and never gave back my silver-mounted 
Derringers, that I reckoned to give to you ! Tell him 
he’d better give them up or I’ll ”- 

“ Jack,” interrupted Dr. Duchesne, with infinite gentle¬ 
ness, laying his hand on the invalid’s arm, “ you must not 
think of me.” 

Jack pressed his friend’s hand. 

“ There’s my diamond pin up the spout at Wingdam, 
and the money gone to Lawyer Maxwell to pay witnesses 
for that old fool Gabriel. And then when Gabriel and me 
was escaping I happened to strike the very man, Perkins, 
who was Gabriel’s principal witness, and he was dead 
broke, and I had to give him my solitaire ring to help him 
get away and be on hand for Gabriel. And OHy’s got my 
gold specimen to be made into a mug for that cub of that 
old she tiger—Gabriel’s woman—that Madame Devarges. 
And my watch—who has got my watch?” said Mr. 
Hamlin, reflectively. 

“Nevermind those things. Jack. Have you any word 
to send—to—anybody ? ” 

“ No.” 

There was a long pause. In the stillness the ticking of 
a clock on the mantel became audible. Then there was a 
laugh in the ante-room, where a professional brother of 



490 Gabriel Conroy, 

Jack’s had been waiting, slightly under the influence of 
grief and liquor. 

“ Scotty ought to know better than to kick up a row 
in a decent woman’s house,” whispered Jack, faintly. 
“ Tell him to dry up, or I’ll ”- 

But his voice was failing him, and the sentence remained 
incomplete. 

“ Doc-” (after a long effort). 

“Jack.” 

“ Don’t—let—on—to Pete—I fooled—him.** 

“No, Jack.” 

They were both still for several minutes. And then Dr. 
Duchesne softly released his hand and laid that of his 
patient, white and thin, upon the coverlid before him. 
Then he rose gently and opened the door of the ante¬ 
room. Two or three eager faces confronted him. “ Pete,” 
he said, gravely, “ I want Pete—no one else.” 

The old negro entered with a trembling step. And then 
catching sight of the white face on the pillow, he uttered 
one cry—a cry replete with all the hysterical pathos of his 
race, and ran and dropped on his knees beside—it! And 
then the black and the white face were near together, and 
both were wet with tears. 

Dr. Duchesne stepped forward and would have laid his 
hand gently upon the old servant’s shoulder. But he 
stopped, for suddenly both of the black hands were lifted 
wildly in the air, and the black face with rapt eyeballs 
turned toward the ceiling, as if they had caught sight of the 
steadfast blue beyond. Perhaps they had. 

“ O de Lord God! whose prechiss blood washes de 
brack sheep and de white sheep all de one colour ! O de 
Lamb ob God! Sabe, sabe dis por’, dis por’ boy. O 
Lord God, for MY sake. O de Lord God, dow knowst fo* 
twenty years Pete, ole Pete, has walked in dy ways—has 



491 


In the Old Cabin again. 

found de Lord and Him crucified!—and has been dy 
servant. O de Lord God—O de bressed Lord, ef it’s all 
de same to you, let all dat go fo’ nowt. Let ole Pete go 1 
and send down dy mercy and forgiveness fo’ him / ” 


CHAPTER X. 

IN THE OLD CABIN AGAIN. 

There was little difficulty in establishing the validity of 
Grace Conroy’s claim to the Conroy grant under the be¬ 
quest of Dr. Devarges. Her identity was confirmed by 
Mr. Dumphy—none the less readily that it relieved him of 
a distressing doubt about the late Mrs. Dumphy, and did 
not affect his claim to the mineral discovery which he had 
purchased from Gabriel and his wife. It was true that 
since the dropping of the lead the mine had been virtually 
abandoned, and was comparatively of little market value. 
But Mr. Dumphy still clung to the hope that the missing 
lead would be discovered. 

He was right. It was some weeks after the death of 
Mr. Hamlin that Gabriel and Oily stood again beneath the 
dismantled roof-tree and bare walls of his old cabin on 
Conroy Hill. But the visit this time was not one of con¬ 
fidential disclosure nor lonely contemplation, but with a 
practical view of determining whether this first home of 
the brother and sister could be repaired and made habit¬ 
able, for Gabriel had steadily refused the solicitations of 
Grace that he should occupy his more recent mansion, 
Mrs. Conroy and infant were at the hotel. 

“ Thar, Oily,” said Gabriel, “ I reckon that a cartload o’ 
boards and a few days’ work with willin’ hands, will put 
that thar shanty back ag’in ez it used to be when you and 
me waz childun.” 


492 Gabriel Conroy. 

“ Yes,” said Oily, abstractedly. 

<« WeVe had good times yer, Oily, you and me I * 

“ Yes,” said Oily, with eyes still afar. 

Gabriel looked down—a great way—on his sister, and 
then suddenly took her hand and sat down upon the door¬ 
step, drawing her between his knees after the’old fashion, 

“ Ye ain’t hearkenin’ to me. Oily dear ! ” 

Whereat Miss Olympia instantly and illogically burst into 
tears, and threw her small arms about Gabriel’s huge bulk. 
She had been capricious and fretful since Mi Hamlin’s 
death, and it may be that she embraced the dead man 
again in her brother’s arms. But her outward expression 
was, “ Gracey ! I was thinking o’ poor Gracey, Gabe ! ” 
‘‘Then,” said Gabriel, with intense archness and cunning, 
“ you was thinkin’ o’ present kempany, for ef I ain’t blind, 
that’s them coming up the hill.” 

There were two figures slowly coming up the hill out¬ 
lined against the rosy sunset. A man and woman—Arthur 
Poinsett and Grace Conroy. Oily lifted her head and rose 
to her feet. They approached nearer. No one spoke. 
The next instant—impulsively I admit, inconsistently I pro¬ 
test—the sisters were in each other’s arms. The two men 
looked at each other, awkward, reticent, superior. 

Then the women having made quick work of it, the two 
men were treated to an equally illogical, inconsistent em¬ 
brace. When Grace at last, crying and laughing, released 
Gabriel’s neck from her sweet arms, Mr. Poinsett assumed 
the masculine attitude of pure reason. 

“Now that you have found your sister, permit me to in¬ 
troduce you to my wife,” he said to Gabriel, taking Grace’s 
hand in his own. 

Whereat Oily flew into Poinsett’s arms, and gave him 3 
fraternal and conciliatory kiss. Tableau. 

“ You don’t look like a bride,” said the practical Oily to 


In the Old Cabin again, 493 

Mrs. Poinsett, under her breath; ‘‘ you ain’t got no veil, no 
orange blossoms—and that black dress ”- 

** We’ve been married seven years, Oily,” said the quick¬ 
eared and ready-witted Arthur. 

And then these people began to chatter as if they had 
always been in the closest confidence and communion. 

“You know,” said Grace to her brother, “Arthur and 1 
are going East, to the States, to-morrow, and really, Gabe, 
he says he will not leave here until you consent to take back 
your house—your wife’s house, Gabe. You know WE” 
(there was a tremendous significance in this newly-found 
personal plural), “ WE have deeded it all to you.” 

“ I hev a dooty to per-form to Gracey,” said Gabriel Con¬ 
roy, with astute deliberation, looking at Mr. Poinsett, “ a 
dooty to thet gal, thet must be done afore any trans-fer of 
this yer proputty is made. I hev to make restitution of 
certain papers ez hez fallen casooally into my hands. This 
yer paper,” he added, drawing a soiled yellow envelope 
from his pocket, “ kem to me a week ago, the same hevin’ 
lied in the Express Office sens the trial. It belongs to 
Gracey, I reckon, and I hands it to her.” 

Grace tore open the envelope, glanced at its contents 
hurriedly, uttered a slight cry of astonishment, blushed, and 
put the paper into her pocket. 

“This yer paper,” continued Gabriel, gravely, drawing 
another from his blouse, “ was found by me in the Empire 
Tunnel the night I was runnin’ from the lynchers. It like¬ 
wise b’longs to Gracey—and the world gin’rally. It’s the 
record of Dr. Devarges’ fust discovery of the silver lead on 
this yer hill, and,” continued Gabriel, with infinite gravity, 
“wipes out, so to speak, this yer mineral right o’ me and 
Mr. Dumphy and the stockholders gin’rally.” 

It was Mr. Poinsett’s turn to take the paper from 
Gabriel’s hands. He examined it attentively by the fading 



494 Gabriel Conroy. 

light ‘‘That is so,” he said, earnestly j “it is quite legal 
and valid.” 

“ And thar ez one paper more,” continued Gabriel, this 
time putting his hand in his bosom and drawing out a buck¬ 
skin purse, from which he extracted a rnany-folded paper, 
“ It’s the grant that Dr. Devarges gave Gracey, thet thet 
pore Mexican Ramirez ez—maybe ye may remember—wai 
killed, handed to my wife, and July, my wife”—said Gab¬ 
riel, with a prodigious blush—“ hez been sorter keepin’ in 
TRUST for Gracey ! ” 

He gave the paper to Arthur, who received it, but still 
retained a warm grasp of Gabriel’s massive hand. 

“ And now,” added Gabriel, “ et’s gettin’ late, and I reckon 
et’s about the square thing ef we’d ad-journ this yer 
meeting to the hotel, and ez you’re goin’ away, maybe ye’d 
make a partin’ visit with yer wife, forgettin’ and forgivin’ 
like, to Mrs. Conroy and the baby—a pore little thing— 
that ye wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Poinsett, looks like me!” 

But Oily and Grace had drawn aside, and were in 
the midst of an animated conversation. And Grace was 
saying— 

“ So I took the stone from the fire, just as I take this ” 
(she picked up a fragment of the crumbling chimney before 
her); “it looked black and burnt just like this; and I 
rubbed it hard on the blanket so, and it shone, just like 
silver, and Dr. Devarges said”- 

“We are going, Grace,” interrupted her husband, “we 
are going to see Gabriel’s wife.” Grace hesitated a moment, 
but as her husband took her arm he slightly pressed it with 
a certain matrimonial caution, whereupon with a quick 
impulsive gesture, Grace held out her hand to Oily, and 
the three gaily followed the bowed figure of Gabriel, as he 
strode through the darkening woods. 


The Return of a Footprint. 


495 


CHAPTER XL 

THE RETURN OF A FOOTPRINT. 

I REGRET that no detailed account of the reconciliatory visi< 
to Mrs. Conroy has been handed down, and I only gathei 
a hint of it from after comments of the actors themselves. 
When the last words of parting had been said, and Grace 
and Arthur had taken their seats in the Wingdam coach, 
Gabriel bent over his wife’s bedside,— 

“It kinder seemed ez ef you and Mr. Poinsett recog¬ 
nised each other at first, July,” said Gabriel. 

“ I have seen him before—not here ! I don’t think he’ll 
ever trouble us much, Gabriel,” said Mrs. Conroy, with a 
certain triumphant lighting of the cold fires of her grey 
eyes. “ But look at the baby. He’s laughing! He 
knows you, I declare! ” And in Gabriel s rapt astonish¬ 
ment at this unprecedented display of intelligence in one 
so young, the subject was dropped. 

“Why, where did you ever see Mrs. Conroy before?” 
asked Grace of her husband, when they had reached Wing- 
dam that night. 

“ I never saw Mrs. Conroy before,” returned Arthur, with 
legal precision. “ I met a lady in St. Louis years ago under 
another name, who, I dare say, is now your brother’s wife. 
But—I think, Grace—the less we see of her—the better.” 

“Why?” 

“ By the way, darling, what was that paper that Gabriel 
gave you?” asked Arthur, lightly, avoiding the previous 
question. 

Grace drew the paper from her pocket, blushed slightly, 
kissed her husband, and then putting her arms around his 
neck, laid her face in his breast, while he read aloud, in 
Spanish, the following ;— 




496 Gabriel Conroy. 

“This is to give trustworthy statement that on the i8th of May 
1848, a young girl, calling herself Grace Conroy, sought shelter and 
aid at the Presidio of San Geronimo. Being friendless—but of the B. 
V. M. and the Saints—I adopted her as my daughter, with the name 
of Dolores Salvaiierra. Six months after her arrival, on the 12th 
November 1848, she was delivered of a dead child, the son of her 
affianced husband, one Philip Ashley. Wishing to keep her secret 
from the world and to prevent recognition by the members of her own 
race and family, by the assistance and advice of an Indian peon^ 
Manuela, she consented that her face and hands should be daily 
washed by the juice of the Yokoto —whose effect is to change the skin 
to the colour of bronze. With this metamorphosis she became known, 
by my advice and consent, as the daughter of the Indian Princess 
Nicata and myself. And as such I have recognised in due form her 
legal right in the apportionment of my estate. 

“Given at the Presidio of San Geronimo, this 1st day of December 
1848. 

“Jos^: Hermenegildo Salvatierra.” 

“ But how did Gabriel get this ? ” asked Arthur. 

“I—don’t—know !” said Grace. 

“To whom did you give it? ” 

“ To—Padre Felipe.” 

“ Oh, I see! ” said Arthur. “ Then you are Mr. 
Dumphy’s long-lost wife ? ” 

“ I don’t know what Father Felipe did,” said Grace, 
tossing her head slightly. “ I put the matter in his hands.” 

“ The whole story ? ” 

“ I said nothing about you—you great goose ! ” 

Arthur kissed her by way of acknowledging the justice 
of the epithet. 

“But 1 ought to have told Mrs. Sepulvida the whole 
story when she said you proposed to her. You’re sure you 
didn’t ? ” continued Grace, looking into her husband’s eyes 

“Never,” said that admirable young man, promptly. 


Fragment of a Letter. 


497 



CHAPTER XII. 

FRAGMENT OF A LETTER FROM OLYMPIA CONROY TO 
GRACE POINSETT. 

“-the baby is doing well. And only think—Gabe has 

struck it again ! And you was the cause, dear—and he 
says it all belongs to you—like the old mule that he is. 
Don’t you remember when you was telling me about 
Doctor Divergers giving you that rock and how you rubed 
it untill the silver shone, well, you took up a rock from our 
old chimbly and rubed it, while you was telling it. And 
thet rock Gabe came across next morning, all shining 
where you had rubed it. And shure enuff it was sollid 
silver. And then Gabe says, says he, ‘We’ve struck it 
agin, fur the chimbly rock was taken from the first hole I 
dug on the hill only a hundred feet from here.’ And shure 
enuflf, yesterday he purspected the hole and found the leed 
agin. And we are all very ritch agin and cornin’ to see 
you next yeer, only that Gabe is such a fool! Your loving 
Sister, 

“Olympia Conroy." 


END OF VOL. IV. 












■ . i. 

'•(j •' ■' 

' ". I» ‘ '■iSfT 

i ^ 1 ’ » * 


i/ 


. *> 


‘ mV,^- 





■® 

vT I ,% ' 

• V. 


u 


1 


■r * 


I ' » 


** 

i 4 





I■'fit?!^it,'; 

rJttf v* w " 



» •. 


<A 11 




<:■ -'V” 

: '■ '« :>> !,'’ 14 ". ■' ', ■' >, 

■..■ .V:V 


r 



•*• V 




It;-, 


m 


I A **, '* f.. \ I • .LAAijHl.^ 

- ) i‘ rIImKv.*,, ^ vKy7%k';f :iiV,-,"i in 

. ,;iii7:3OTS£2::«SBS^x.:' ,.,; v ■ „ 


< V 



s 


%: ./%=;< 
*vA^ S . '■J'^ * ^ 

*-'V\"''** '■^- ^ 




O' 


V- '!- ^ ^ ^ -A ^ ^ 

*■% / ^ 

^ ^ t v 


,r " 


^ J. 

•tt 

\/ ^ 0 A- > " ' 0> S ^ 

^ . c< >:> , -. a'i!> ' "" 





o j\y u*^ 




* 0 ^ 
5l 

t'A 


✓* 


^ ' V, ■> « , ^ ') \ 0 

A' s.^'AA'y Cl^ 

"^o A<’ V 
'S' A'' O - '•tP. .A' 



tp 




'\ 





V’ -f 0 ^ 




--^.f 






\ 


.0‘ ^ ‘^ ■' -f- 0."N . " -p o 

s. -r, ' ^ vOo. ^ \ 

A^" -Q- „'• / 

> »'•■>. > a'^\' 1^'-Pc- \> '•» 

« , a'^ ^ y 'P ' 9 - " A 

0 O' ^'A irP'uikJ^'?^ ^ A^. .-. > .; _. « 



■ O' A ^ -A' 


'- " % Am... 

V C^ tt- ^ A O 

" \^ 0 , ^ ^ ,0^ 

..V . I 1 8 ^ 



't/' 


V' 


xp'" 

■ r ':• » 



A 

eO 


"A 


o o **. TJ 


0 


\ 


\^°<. 



- a: 

- ^ . 

•r, »- ^MAk' 

0 ^ - ■ 
■“' A> * " ' o> s' ” 

^fv A 

^ /'4 “ -?> 

’'"'^ ' O.V >/> - % A 


OO 






% 


V 



Ss 



•\ 



\ "^ C\ 

^ ^ A 




V 




'A 


V 1 h 



- c" - * ^' 

^ s 

- c.'^ 

° ^ -■ , 

^ sV s(S ^ >S 

^ 'V >' 


r 


ff 



A 


^ ^‘“o . cP'' "AA '"' A ’‘"‘•< 


<^o 


,'H'^ 


' .'o'J^*- ^ ^ -r*^ 

*•' - ^ V vV V> - 

/ 4- 

K 0 ^ ^ 



^ K 






r^ 





'P. 


\ 


o 



■"'oo'^ 




' 






\ 




.".si". V 

%.M’ M W' ' 

V' A V 05 A s 

> \X 'v ^\> ^ 















5® " '^o o'' 

\0 •. = .-4 -n*. 

' >°'s^ V‘ - ^ “ ’V"”. -». V * -' “ V"s^ -;-^'^c. 

•\ <Jr <, -^Y Y, ^ /%, _ 'K<^ ^ <?V .V. 

'5^ • ^ ^ 



^ C 

t> 

'-^> ^ o >? y'*' 

•-> ^,^ o 

Y: -oo" f-v 

•«, Of- ^ 

'^r f- 


^ . V 

.N \ 5c>i .'/I 



'^^s- ,o'' 



/f ^ <i ^ ' * >? 

^\ oW -p 

r ^^0 o^_ = 


''/ '^C' \-' ^ ® 

t, %> aV - 


z ^ 


'V’ 


./ 


,0 

''' V ”' ‘ '"' 

® i^' ' 

<1 





























































































































